Unwanted

The windy old road could have only been made a route by an old stubborn horse leading his owners from their farmstead to town in a now forgotten time, likely to trade and gather goods once per month, is now covered in gravel and used by miners to travel daily to the dark depths of the coal mines and factories of West Virginia. The path leads down a large scenic canyon, which through it's Western look seems out of place in this region of the Eastern United States. A modern horseman now rides into the canyon, not out of necessity of the bodily survival, but that of his soul. His silver steed races down the mazy labyrinthine of sandstone which towards its lower reaches gives way to limestone. Traveling at a rate 10 times greater than the stallion whose hooves pounded the Appalachian dirt into a path of least resistance long before him, he sets his sights towards the wild river that drains the hills surrounding the vastly underpopulated landscape . His expectations are high, as is his confidence, for last time he road upon this canyon he dueled with upwards of 40 finned beauties. His thoughts remind him of the allure his eyes gather as he wades his way up through the scenic river, one of the beauties of the east, he can already feel the cold breathe of the dam cooling his body on the hot summer's day, shades of turquoise blue contrasted by the white ripples caused by the rivers steep decent, not to mention the gratifying feeling of dropping his soul candy into his clear rubber basket where he admires these gems who resiled past pollution to blossom back into the colorful species in which god spent an extra few moments to paint. The daydreams shorten the trail and he sees the old white church where the road has a right hand branch that leads to the river. He makes the turn and passes through the old Appalachian strongholds to which the natives to this valley call home. Mostly unchanged from the way of life their ancestors lived when they settled in this area from Eastern Europe, the villagers of these small encampments refuse to conform to today's world, as if a protest to all that is wrong with society today.

He pulls into a small parking area and demounts from his steed. To his surprise the area that is usually glowing with life is eerily tranquil. A negative aura fills the air, not even a bird chirps. He ignores the weird feelings, suits up in all of his gear, and sets off to do battle with the mighty river. He carefully steps into the ice bottomed river and plants his boots against a rock that causes a small seam in the wild river. The observant fisherman watches the river for a few minutes looking for any signs of life that the fish would key their forage on, He strangely sees no signs of life in the river. After deciding to tie on an old standby search and destroy pattern he reaches into his vest to find that his fly box had been left in the parking area. A quick step onto a flat rock swipes the angler off of his feet in an instant, he lands hard on a rock, with his hip taking the brunt of the blow. In an effort to regain his footing he slips again and is swept off his balance yet again only this time the fall sends him under the water. His waders begin to get swamped as he swims back to the surface, a close call, yet the determination in him drives him back to the place where he left his fly box so he can go through with his mission. He quickly snatches it up and makes a straight line back to the promising run. Instead of walking the open path, he takes a shortcut through the woods, with the river in sight he picks up his step and just as he places a foot into the last tuft of weeds he hears an audible sound that will send chills down any avid outdoorsmans spine. The rattle quickly travels from his ear through his sensory system and the brain triggers the abort switch launching the angler through the air at a rate so fast that even the quickest of snakes couldn't strike. He lands in the river, his left hand catches his fall up against a log where he takes a moment to reflect on the close encounter with what is likely Appalachia's most dangerous native. As he goes to push himself off of the log and regain his balance he see's a water snake who was using the log to gather some heat on the summer's day, coiled and ready to strike the fisherman who intruded on his resting area.

 He again gathers himself and the stubborn fisherman marches forward to the juicy run. Growing exceedingly frustrated, he quickly ties on his absurd excuse for a fly and takes a cast into the current. Just as the cast is dropping into the heart of the strikezone, the angler sets into a deep snag which results in his tippet breaking and likely blowing up the spot. He reties his rig and continues working up through the section of usually promising water with the only result being a large number of flies lost to underwater debris and boulders. He has yet to even spot a trout in the gin clear water, the man can neither see nor feel any life on the river, the birds, deer, bugs, even the fish seem to have completely left the area in abandon. Out of complete arrogance the man ties on another fly, just as he puts his box back into his vest pouch, he hears some rustling in the woods behind him, being the first signs of life he has heard all day (That wasn't a snake trying to kill him), he quickly looks over his shoulder to see two men peering through the weeds pointing in his direction and sharing whispers. The two who appeared to be natives of the small Appalachian "village" quickly disappeared back into the thick timber after seeing the man had uncovered them. The man weighed the thought of catching a trophy sized fish which he knew resided in this river, with the strange negative feelings he was getting and like a mule, he pushed his way upstream towards a big chute that plunges into a nice deep hole. It was here where he had hooked a rainbow trout in the excess of twenty inches on his last outing, he was set for revenge and just as he motioned to cast he heard a loud CRACK on the hillside that towered above the river in this section. An old Hemlock tree decided to throw one of it's large branches at the angler as if to tell him to "get out". The fisherman dove out of the way of the limb and was flopping around in the river like a wounded duck, as he regained his footing he saw his rod floating away down stream, he ran to gather it slipping the whole way down. Upon gathering his rod back he found that his reel took some damage from the ordeal and was no longer functional. Angrily he ran back to shore and sets a waypoint in his brain directly back to the parking area. He hit the small path that leads along the river (this time looking for snakes and any other unexpected harm) and limped towards his exit finally admitting his defeat. Not even the hint of a bump from a fish on any of his presentations, how could this be after such a huge numbers day on his previous trip the man thought. Without even removing his water logged waders the man jumped into his steel horse and kicked it into drive, leaving his high hopes for the day in a cloud of red dust behind him. As he winds his way up and out of the deep canyon he reflected on the events that took place, lately the man had been trying to pursue his roots and fit his way into being a cog in the natural world like his ancestors were, learning hard lessons along the way. This time he learned the fable of  the natural world revealing to you warnings,when it does it's best not be arrogant to it and recognize the signals it is giving and follow suit. On that day, in that deep canyon, in the heart of Appalachia, be it for his own good or reasons he may never know, he was unwanted.

The Trout Also Rises

A sleepless boy lies awake in bed. His vivid imagination brightens the dark room in which he lays. The morning sun still hides from the moon, as the boy counts the grains of sand that fall through. In the bleakness of the night, bright colors of yellow, orange, red, blue, and so on fill his mind. His coming of age trip awaits him. Just like every other boy his age, the anticipation of opening day of trout season knocks at the midnight hour.

   Now that same boy is a young man, yet he still lies wide-eyed on the comforts of his pillow. He now knows that two things remain constant in nature: Time and Water continuously flow by his life and he can never have enough of the two. The man has been blessed to step foot in many different streams yet he desired to see a certain event on hallowed water. He heard the chatters and stories from men far past his elder that giant, notoriously lock jawed Salmo trutta would engorge their gullet on locust-esque monsters in a biblical event that only Moses’ himself could call up from the depth of the dolomite dungeons that shield the predators below. His restlessness awakened visions of these fabled flying creatures, known as, the Green Drake. His youthful arrogance caused him to remain skeptical and doubt the words of men his wiser. Would these may-dragons awake the beasts that laid dormant below? Would the hoards of angling pilgrims choking the stream cause him to curse this event and never return? These thoughts kept him awake until the alarm cried out that his time had come and he must begin his journey to the mecca. By 5 am he was on the road, his comrades wheels howled to the morning moon that began to run from the waking sun. Farmland gave way to rolling hills that climbed to steep mountain peaks that had rich hearts of lime that gave life to this precious water.  The man and his friend discussed their growing skeptiscm and both agreed they were not sure the coming day could match their ballooned expectations. They arrived and to their surprise, other fisherman had not yet arrived to this anticipated event. The young man eagerly ran down to the waters edge and his joyful movements awakened the mummies-to-be that laid still awaiting their tombs. His face was astonished at their sheer size and numbers. Within seconds his doubts began to vanish. Would the mythical tales soon become true? He sure hoped so. Excitement soon began to take hold of him as he and his friend entered the cold clear water. As he waded in, he looked down and gasped at the sheer amount of nymphal shucks that brushed past his legs. These ghastly creatures had felt the hand of Mother Nature and swam from their house of muck to cross the into an unknown world.

            The man took a dry fly from his box and tied it to his line. He had never thrown such a beastly thing; his usual flies were tender and aesthetic. This large fly was rugged and boisterous. Casting this would be more like chucking a rock he thought to him self. Yet he knew to put aside his pride and listen to his friend. The two began to walk down stream and quickly they were met with welcome. Slurp after slurp, the trout fed. Feeding on the leftovers of the nights fall. The two began to sling their woven hooks at the gluttonous finned fiends. The crippled dun would ride the surface waiting for its sneak attack. The trout snacked in their harmonious rhythm.  The two anglers fooled quite a few lively trout to begin their trek into the mountain valley. The young mans soul was in high spirits because of their fast success, but the trout he had landed were all of the past. None of the fish caught his eye. Even though he was in high spirits, he felt the tug of the fisherman’s soul., that primal drive that turns the “last cast” into thousands more. He sought out the fish from the elder’s tales as they had stoked a fire that had burned this man’s entire life. The man kept his head held high and his eyes scanned the turning water for a sign of something bigger. The men fished for miles over treacherous water and bone breaking boulders. The sun climbed the mountains that hid the fly fisherman until mother earth could not hide her children from the sizzling heat. The man felt his muscles quiver and his knees begin to ache yet he knew that pushing through till the end was the only way a fisherman should live. Both anglers pushed on with all their might. Cast after cast his bones cried but he knew each cast was one closer to the beast he sought. Bleached skies and radiant light burned their flesh yet the finned fiends did not mind, they consumed and consumed like gluttonous pigs. The young man finally had to stop. They had arrived at a gentle bend where the roaring water swirled into a tender stretch. Two boulders could be seen between this yielding flow and its quickening tail. Smaller trout continued to rise. The younger man sat and watched as his elder continued to throw and throw. He could see the exhaustion and fatigue in his friend’s eyes. As he began to scan the pool, a small subtlety caught his eye. Something different, something quiet, something that wanted to remain hidden.. He continued to intensely stare upon this shadow zone until it happened. The dolomite door was rolled away, what lied beneath had thought it had sneaked but its blood lust for the drake caused it to lose his instinct. The young fisherman’s eyes grew wide and his face drained as he had seen a ghoul. The beast continued to rise from his lair in rhythmic fashion.  He snapped to his feet and ready his rod, his heart pounded and his hands shook. The biggest brown trout he had ever seen continued to rise before him. He waited and watched and when he felt the time was right he gracefully flung the crippled fly in symphonic fashion. As the fly celestially floated down to the surface, the man’s pride had lied and told him to be ready. In a split of a second that seemed to last a century, the old chiseled fish who rose to happily engulf the fly felt something was astray.  The goliath’s wild intuition came back to him and it’s old fins slapped the fly as he fled from its trickery. The first battle cry was led out and both contestants knew this fight would not end soon.

            The old fish shook the young man’s confidence, and he began to cast and cast out of youthful arrogance. His friend came down the stream to see why the young man had been planted in the water. Confusion dressed his friend’s face until the demon rose again. The older man’s face was shocked and he yelled to him that the beast was bigger than anything he had seen. The younger man moved down and let his friend in and they both begin to cast. The beast ignored each and every fly. Smirking at the two showing his wet wisdom, the yellow-bellied behemoth continually shook his snout at their patterns. The two men cast for over an hours time. The elder man had decided to hang his fly but the younger man was driven to catch this swimming myth. He began to enter a trance while he slung his fly over and over into the drift. He began to gingerly move his feet at different angles to find the right angle where the hawk-eyed fish would make a fatal error. In his trance, his confidence had gone missing. His persistence kept him going at the fish but blind casts were what they really were.  Finally the man’s feet moved in a new direction and his shoulders squared his fly into a new drift. In this split second, the ancient beast had grown zealous and he was fooled by this unique flow. The fish sprang forth from his dungeon and ripped his teeth into the feathered hook. 

In the young man’s daze, his friend yelled that the time had come, the young man’s eyes had failed him as they had grown weary. All of a sudden the man woke up and swung his sword back at the beast..

            The sky was still bright but in the young man’s eyes everything had grown dreary. As the fish went to slurp the fly, the man’s senses overreacted and he drove the fly into the lunker’s lip all too bluntly. The young man felt like a boy as his line flailed back in the wind and greeted his face. He fell to his feet, soulless and defeated. His older friend could not believe what had happened. Things fell quiet as he sat there. The two could not fathom this reality. The young mans heart broke when the tippet twanged. The older friend gave words of encouragement and said he would continue on but the young man could not accept this fate. He chose to sit and introspect upon the things he had done wrong so this would never happen again. Time began to drift away as he sat there figuring out how he would be able piece his fragile self back together. His friend left to seek new risers but he chose to stay, some wild intuition was transfigured into him that glimpse of time the fish was hooked before the tippet broke. The two had become connected and now the young man knew he would not give up. A half hour pasted until something different happened again. The fisherman focused in on the spot just as he had before. This time he knew his adversary had returned.

 Sipp.Slurrrpp.Sipppppppp. The man sat watching, this time his heart did not race. He knew he had grown since their last encounter only a short while before. His plan this time was to let Goliath control the board and only move his pieces into action when the aging fish was not ready. He sat watching and studying the water warrior’s movements and analyzing this fishes quirks. The sun slowly began to descend down the mountain and different bugs began to fly. The young man’s friend returned from his journey astonished to see that he still sat where he had left him. He explained to him that he would wait until dusk to make another cast. The older man gave him a crazy look but he sensed the determination and moved up stream to find more fish.

As the night air began to draw in, fishermen began to migrate towards the hidden section that the young man had been fishing. He grew agitated as fools began to herd around trying to inch in to the waiting battlefield. One by one more fly fishermen crept in. Pressuring him to put up his guard and prepare for the final battle. He knew the time wasn’t right as the beastly fish was out of rhythm but stranger’s flies began to coat the water. Reluctantly, he tied on another cripple dun. He moved back behind his enemies line and lightly fanned his fly back into the drift.  He was not ready to catch the beast but knew he had to protect what he had staked out.

Fisherman after fisherman poured into the area and the young man had to hide the feeding monster. Soon another man crept too close into the beast’s water. The young man knew it was time to act quickly, goliath was beginning to rise in closer sequence but this time the toothed terror ignored the great mighty drakes. The angler’s heart began to beat harder as he saw the other fisherman close in. He watched the giant fish, trying to figure out what it hungered for. All of a sudden, a bead of gold floated up from the hidden treasure of the dolomite dungeon. A sulphur emerged and the brown behemoth was overcome by the tasty treat. The fish pounced , slurped, sloshed and slapped the water. The young man had seen enough, he grinned and time seemed to once again slow down as he tied the size 16 sulphur emerger pattern to his tippet. The approaching angler waded faster to cast to the prized fish.  The young man threw his first perfect cast and smirked to the greedy approaching man.

He took a breath as he and the beautiful fish locked eyes. The giant rose and sipped the perfect pattern. In this moment, all was silent. The fisherman and fish were connected to one another again and then…chaos.

The man swung his sword and this time connected. The Grendel became enraged and the wrath of war erupted. The fish pulled harder than anything the man had felt before. His 5wt rod began to buckle to the beast but the man would not give into its mythical might. His reel cried out as the fish flung through the air. Run after wicked run the fish thrashed and thrashed. The man grew tired as he fought his greatest foe. He yelled for his friend who tromped down through the water to him, amazed that his persistence had brought upon the reckoning the young angler sought. Anglers began to watch as he fought the beast. At once he realized what his pride had blinded him from…. the net. He had forgot the net. His lust for revenge slowly began to diminish, as he knew that his foolishness would cost him his treasure.

The old beast began to tire and the young man knew that risking this fish’s life for greed would haunt him for a lifetime. Instead, the angler bowed his head pulled the beast into his feet. The fish’s immaculate beauty was showcased onto him as it bowed out before his feet. The man reached down and brushed the fish with his hand under the water, showing his respect. The trout looked up to the man and then shook his vomerine-clad jaws. The giant swam back to its haunt where it would continue to reign. Everyone around the young man had a look of disgust as the fish slipped from his fingers. This time around though, the man stood their smiling. He knew he experienced something on those hallowed waters that few would be blessed with.

As he walked out from the stream he rested upon the bank, thinking about all the events that had just taken place. He knew that the beast would swim through his dreams but all was okay with the fact that his heart had pulled through and pushed away the greed that would have slayed the beast. The young man sat there staring into the water when suddenly the sight that the two men had come to see had appeared almost as an apparition upon the water. Millions of coffin flies returned to their final resting place in miracle like fashion. The biblical sight consumed his mind as the dying drakes zoomed around him. Amazed, the man smiled.

 All was at peace.