He had ducked under the chain link fence so many times in his mind that doing it for real felt normal. Trespassing wasn’t something he normally fantasized about. However this particular temptation was too hard to resist. The map showed that on the private stretch the river cut deep into the valley. Upstream was always crowded, and separated from this off-limits portion by what was essentially a waterfall. Downstream was private, as well; privately owned by a club too expensive and to pretentious for him to ever join. But too expensive, mostly. Both adjoining segments held fat, wild trout. The forbidden water was surely to die for.

Abandoning his scruples for good fly fishing drove him to the edge of the fence. Its dilapidated nature and singular, modest sign practically pulled him under. It wasn’t “NO TRESPASSING.” It wasn’t “PRIVATE PROPERTY.” It definitely wasn’t “NO FISHING HUNTING TRAPPING.” All that kept him and all the other anglers at bay was a rusty sheet of metal nailed to a tree, scrawled with “KEEP AWAY” in poorly applied paint.

Once he was on the other side of the fence the heat of the moment transformed into a cool damp all over his body. No one was here. No one would know he was here. He just would have to exercise caution when resurfacing on the road.

He had never been on this side of the fence. And while he didn’t expect a maintained trail down to the water, he was surprised by how the hillside of the valley was remarkably steep; much steeper than the public water only a few hundred yards away from where he had entered. The vegetation was thick, too. Pines with low boughs and shrubbery made moving difficult, yet he simultaneously struggled to stay upright because of the pitch of his footing.

What struck him as he attempted to navigate his way to the river was how disorienting things were. He would try to move past one tree, only to find it bent at an angle such that the branches completely obstructed his path. Circling back uphill and going around the tree, it appeared that the other side was just as impenetrable. Numerous times, he would find himself hemmed in only to turn around and immediately confront a choking wall of foliage.

This optical illusion or anxious energy or whatever it was began to give him second thoughts about his intentions. Everything about the landscape was literally keeping him from the water, but his sole focus on virgin fish filled his heart and lungs with the drive to go on.

By the time he crashed out to the river’s edge he was covered in sap, scratches, and spiderwebs. Wiping his forearm across his sweating face  yielded a marbled paste of blood and dirt, with not a few still-twitching spider legs. Breathing heavily and recovering from the ordeal he had a momentary reprieve from the last half-hour’s struggle as he beheld the dark, swirling water in front of him. This was what he had hoped for. Deep pools, surely home to fish that would dwarf everything he had caught upstream. Perhaps even fish that grew large in the club’s well-maintained beat only to swim up here to enjoy a life devoid of artificial flies.

Once his breathing returned to a normal pace he noticed that the woods were silent. It wasn’t that he simply couldn’t hear the road noise from the ridge above. There was no wind in the trees. There were no birds. The water itself, only a few feet from where he stood, seemed to hum and groan.

Tying on a reliable pattern, he cast to the head of the pool. His expectation was that this first cast would yield a fish, rendering the entire plunge through the fence and down the hill worthwhile. Nothing happened, though. He cast again. Nothing. A third cast, closer to a big boulder this time. The fly went underwater. He set the hook, but there wasn’t any weight on the other end. Another cast and the fly didn’t stay afloat. He had applied the proper treatment; why was it sinking?

Walking up to the next run he switched out his fly for a new, dry one. He made sure to generously dab this dry fly with a floating agent. He figured he spooked all the fish in the previous pool when he lunged out of the forest. Four well-placed casts in this pool led to the same lack of results. And he also noticed how dark it was getting. It  was fall, yes. But he had left his car around two. It couldn’t have been more than an hour since then. Even though there was sky above him, he found himself squinting and struggling to see his fly on the water. The fact that they kept sinking didn’t help, either.

The next run of river was much wider. He waded out, knee-deep to make a long cast upstream. The current was deceptively strong. It didn’t help that his feet felt heavy, presumably from the exertion of the descent. Before long, he was putting his headlamp on to see well enough to dry and re-tie his flies.

The next pool. One more cast. Just a single fish will make it all worthwhile.

Wading slowly upstream put him deeper. He was casting quickly and with a more haphazard approach than was his usual, technical style. The fact that there were no fish was illogical. The pull of the water was getting extreme. The silence of all but his breathing was almost unbearable. A long, looping cast near the far bank didn’t feel right. He flipped on his headlamp to see what he was snagged on and the light flickered and died. He cursed and took a step towards the bank. Still, he regretted spooking any trout that might be in what was undoubtedly a prime hole.

Only a few steps towards the bank and he was past his waist. Looking up he realized he couldn’t see the bank at all. He couldn’t see either bank. He reeled in his slack line, pointed his rod at where he felt his fly to be, and gave a quick tug to snap the leader free. Turning, he took a step back where he had come from. The water was at the base of his ribcage. Downstream: now it was at his chest. He had just come from this direction and he was only wading up to his knees. He turned quickly to try to regain his bearings, but the quick and silent motion sloshed water under his pits and down the inside of his waders.

Panicking he started downstream. Downstream was the next pool and he had to be only  a few yards from the ankle-deep lip he had crossed moments ago. He was going to get wet but he was already wet. Right now all that mattered was getting off the water and up the hill and under the fence and breathing that fresh air.

Before he knew it he was under water. He must have slipped. But he didn’t feel himself slip. How it happened was not the problem because it was as if he stepped off an immeasurable edge. Moving his arms to swim and pull himself upward didn’t do anything. Not only did he continue to drift deeper, but despite his manic flailing there was no sensation of resistance or buoyancy or sound. Heaviness was overtaking him.

Looking where he perceived the surface to be, his headlamp began to flicker. The silhouette of a trout slowly swam above him.