Thought number one: “Well, that’s where the trout were the whole time.”

Thought number two: “I’m pretty sure I’m going to fall to my death.”

Looking back, all these years later, the latter is clearer. In my mind’s eye, I can see the pool. I can see the fish. I can see where I was when I was fishing, where I had been casting, and where I should have been fishing and standing. At the time, I was just trying to not tumble down a boulder strewn cliff into the icy waters below.

Priorities, I suppose.

***

Growing up in and around fly fishing circles, certain locations take on a more than mythical status. For all anglers, there are rivers which hold a special allure. And then within these streams there are particular runs or pools that have built their own reputation. These spots are known because people could frequently be found there. Or, and better, a fish or many fish are always found there.

Add a teenager’s zeal to all the hype and spilled ink and you have what is tantamount to a holy fly fishing pilgrimage site.

For years I had read and heard about a pool in a river in the Mid-Atlantic. It challenged the most savvy of fly anglers. The wild browns and native brook trout would rise throughout the year. Due to this being a well-known fact conjoined with the ease of access, these fish would be subject to an incessant flotilla of artificial after artificial. Consequently, your chances of seeing fish were high but your chances of catching fish were slim.

Today, I’d probably say, “Well, I’m sure I can catch them.” Then, all I said was, “I need to see that!” Humility doesn’t always come with age. What you do lose with age, however, is the ability to just throw your fishing gear in the car and drive four hours in the middle of the night.

I woke up in my car just after dawn. Parked a few hundred feet from this fabled pool, I ate a room-temperature Pop Tart while pulling on my waders while waking up. It was a late spring morning – the kind that makes you pause as you look at your fleece and wonder if you’ll need it. There were already small mayflies and caddis flitting about. There was already a streamer on my leader. I cut it off. I was optimistic.

A lot of “fears” were going through my mind. Someone else was going to be fishing there. No fish were going to be rising. I wasn’t going to even be in the right place. I can still vividly remember wading into the back of the pool, rod in my right hand and leader in my left. All three fears were immediately relieved. I was alone. Trout were rising. This was definitely the spot.

Not only was I alone in the pool – I was alone as far as I could see upstream and down. Moreover, I was right where I was supposed to be. Rocks I had heard about were essentially just as I had pictured them in my mind. Currents that were described by talented writers were instantly perceivable. Most importantly, trout were rising.

There were dimples. There were slurps. And there were rolling porpoise rises that flashed golden from the bright flanks of the wild brown trout.

I tied on something that resembled what I had been seeing buzzing about the water. A pale mayfly dun. My first cast was surprisingly good but wasn’t met with any response. More of the same followed. I casted and casted. I changed flies. I dropped from 5X to 6X to 7X. I changed flies again. I sat on a rock. I took off the fleece I didn’t really need. I changed flies again.

The fish, unphased, continued to rise.

I kept at it for hours. It is amazing how actively feeding fish can distort your perception of time and reality. Watching them eat real bugs compelled me to stay in one spot and convince them to eat my fake bugs. No one was waiting for their turn. I didn’t have anywhere to be. And why leave fish to find fish?

Eventually, I left these fish to find fish that were willing to play ball. Dumber fish, preferably. For whatever reason, I decided to scale the opposite bank and move upstream from that side. The side from which I entered the river was a road. The other side was a steep rise to a ridge that rose a good fifty feet above the river. It must have been something I saw in the pool above me. Perhaps the current came in from the near side and the prudent position for casting was the other bank. Maybe I saw a fish. Most likely, I was frazzled and just moved to move.

So I moved, beginning to climb the boulders and dirt leading upwards.

The second half of this story can be read here on Casting Across.