One of my passions is fly fishing. Several years ago I witnessed the simple act of fly fishing turn into fluid art masterfully painted by a woman almost old enough to be my grandmother.
The morning air was cool and thick with dew as I stepped out of the car and walked to the stream's edge. The water I had chosen for the day was a "Fly Fishing Only" section of Spring Creek near Bellefonte, PA. It is a beautiful mile and a half of pristine trout water loaded with trout over 20 inches long. The scenery and the promise of big trout made it a popular place for many anglers.
I fished throughout the morning by floating dry flies over some very nice, but reluctant, brown trout. The fish would often rise from the depths to inspect my offerings, drift with them for a moment, then smugly refuse them. With a swish of their tails they returned to their lairs.
As the damp coolness of morning gave way to the dry heat of midday, I found a shady spot to eat lunch, rest, and formulate a strategy for the evening assault. I decided to begin again upstream and fish downstream toward the parking area. After another couple of hours of snubbing by finicky trout, I was shaken back from a momentary daydream of more cooperative trout by the splashing of a fish fighting hard against a fly rod--but not my fly rod. The lucky angler was too far downstream to see in any detail, but judging from the splashing, the fish seemed sizeable.
I shook my head in disgust and voiced my thoughts to a pair of brown trout actively feeding in front of me, "Why don't you guys hit like that?" They didn't answer.
I cast again. Before the fly finished its drift, another fish was splashing downstream; same angler, same spot. I cast again. Still no takers. The splashing downstream continued. I watched the angler land another fish. Since I wasn't having any luck, I decided to move downstream for a closer look. Maybe the angler would fill me in on what the trout were taking.
I reached the stream bank opposite the angler and starred in amazement at what I saw. The angler was an elderly woman of at least 60 years of age--perhaps older. She was tall and lean. It was impossible to say how tall, because she was wearing chest waders and standing in knee-deep water. She was taking up slack line and getting ready to cast again.
"You seem to have just what they want today," I said. She smiled and with seemingly no effort at all made a forward cast that put the fly a good 40 feet upstream. This was not her first time fly fishing.
"I guess I'm doing alright, but they aren't of any size," she answered.
"Mind if I watch you catch another?" I asked.
"Not at all." She smiled, but her gaze never left the fly. A splashy rise and missed take signaled at least one more willing trout in the pool. I lit a cigar and took a seat on the grassy bank.
I watched in amazement at how she worked the fly rod and handled the line. It seemed to be effortless for her, as though the rod was an extension of her body. She simply thought about where the line should go and the rod put it there. It couldn't be strength: A closer look at the woman revealed she was of light build and possibly even older than I originally thought. She was probably closer to 70 than 60. Her face was somewhat drawn but still handsome considering her age. Sunglasses shielded her eyes. Shocks of gray hair peered out from beneath her long-billed fishing cap.
"How did you do today?" she asked, with a quick glance in my direction.
"They skunked me," I responded. "I don't get up here very often. I never seem to have the fly they want. What are you using?"
"A black deer-hair ant. A big one." She finished a back cast then drove the line forward and down sharply causing the fly to smack the water. "I like to splat the fly on the water to let 'em know it's there." As though answering a cue, a nice brown engulfed the ant.
"Seems to work," I said, acknowledging her strategy and skill. She played the trout briefly, sliding it easily into her net. A moment later, the fish was released and the game continued.
"My husband and I used to fish here quite a bit. This was our favorite pool. Now that he's gone, I come here alone a couple times each summer to remember the old days. He was a good man, my husband. I miss him."
"Did he teach you to fly fish?"
"Sure did! He loved streamers, but in this pool, ants always worked best." She smiled broadly at me and pointed her rod tip upward.
I looked up to see what she meant. Dozens of branches from an oak tree growing along the opposite bank spread out high above the water in front of her. Large black ants roaming the tree branches above streams often had the misfortune of being blown into the water below where they became tasty meals for hungry trout.
"Smart man, your husband."
"Yes. . . he was." She didn't talk much after that. I suddenly had a sense that she was thinking of him, that he was with her again, and that I was intruding on their privacy. I rose to my feet, crushed the cigar butt, and left the two of them. As I neared my car I looked back to see the old woman making another cast. I visualized her husband, standing close to her, softly whispering instructions on where to place the fly.
I have returned to that steam many times since that day. I never saw the old woman again. And though I visit the pool on each trip, I never fish it. I don't want to intrude.