Fly fishing, Nature.
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
I remember glancing over at our dog buck who looked toward the path that led to our car as I turned back around, the jaws of a brook trout crashed through the turbulent surface and lunged at the fly. The fish descended from view before I could determine whether it was a figment of my imagination. But the unrelenting pull from the other end of the line removed any doubt, the trout took line as it powered toward the back of the pool buck was already by my side. Sensing something was up. I yelled to Trish between the gusts of wind and falling rain. I could see her reel in and sidestep toward the dog who was standing at attention. It was nearly 830. The light under the leaden sky already murky from the storm was gradually fading as evening merged with night. The trout had stopped somewhere 60 ft out to my right. I could feel its head angrily thrashing back and forth. At first, the fish remained deep, held by the hook of the large fly. Nodded to a sturdy leader for the next 10 minutes we exchanged in line. I had been overmatched from the beginning even so the five X Tippet might hold if the fisher on the other end kept his cool. I knew that the fish had not tired. I knew that I should simply retain pressure and allow it to have its way. I knew that time was not right. But my only glimpse of the trout had been while turning back from looking at buck. I just wanted to see it to confirm that it was the fish. I knew it to be to know that this trout that rose from the roiled waters of Long Pond on the little MC Galloway was as large as any that hung on the walls of Tom Rout's Lodge. I got my wish Trish had remembered her flashlight, its beam now cut through the dark that had enveloped us. It illuminated the point where the fly line sliced through the surface of the pool. I began to reel the rod bending under the strain. Although grudgingly, the brook trout came closer. Buck suddenly barked. The dog's eyes remained fixed at a point of foot, maybe two beyond the shoal. I see it whispered Trish pointing to the same spot with my left hand, grasping the rod. I knelt on one knee and held out my right arm. The trout's dorsal fin cut through the surface. I could see the horn beg fixed within the corner of its jaw. I raised the rod above my right shoulder another few inches and for a moment the fish hung suspended in the dull gleam of the flashlight in the next instant fly separated from Tippet as the trout receded back into the night. For quite some time, the three of us stood in the rain staring silently into the dark waters of Long Pond.