Page 21 of Finding Silence
This time he shakes his head, bending down so his face is hidden by his damn hat.
“Let’s see you rig your rod first. Grab a mayfly from my tackle box if you don’t have one.”
I don’t hesitate and get to work, expertly affixing a new leader to my bright green fly line. Then I select a mayfly from his tackle box and tie that with a clinch knot to the end of the leader, feeling his eyes on me the whole time.
It’s not until I grab my chest waders from the shed and pull them on over my clothes, I hear him wading into the creek. By the time I make my way over to a spot a little farther downstream, near a section with calmer water, he’s already casting his line.
Eager to catch up, I spread my stance, brace against the strong pull of the water, and let out a length of my line to drift behind me on the current. Then bring the tip of my rod forward, back, and flick it forward again, finding my rhythm, as the line arcs through the air. Each time, I let the fly at the end of my leader skim the surface of the water, and when it lands as far as I want it, I allow the current to drift it back to me as I slowly reel in.
Darting a quick glance over my shoulder, I notice Brant is watching me. Normally, fly-fishing is a solitary pastime for me, so the unfamiliar scrutiny is making me a little self-conscious. With the sound of the water, the gentle cadence of my casting, and the clean air filling my lungs, I forget about him soon enough though. This is the peaceful life I’ve been craving, where nothing seems to matter but the moment you find yourself in.
I’m so immersed in this bubble of tranquility, I almost miss a little tug on my line. Reacting quickly, I set the line with a sharp jerk of my rod, feeling the tension when I slowly start reeling in. I make sure to keep the tension on the tip of my rod; the last thing I want is to lose whatever I have on my line, because it feels like a good size. I angle the tip down as I reel, then stop as I slowly bring the rod back up. Nice and even, so I don’t allow any slack on the line that would give the fish room to spit out the hook.
“Ha!”
I’m unable to hold back the triumphant yell when a chunky brook trout surfaces, splashing the water as it twists and turns on my line. Carefully reeling the fish closer to me, I reach for the landing net I usually clip to my shoulder strap, only to find I left it in the shed.
Dammit.
Instead of trying to struggle with the fish while battling the tow of the current, I start backing up toward the shore, only to bump into an unmovable object.
“Here,” Brant, whom I had nearly forgotten about, rumbles behind me.
Brant
* * *
The breeze blows her hair in my face, and I notice for the first time almost all the purple is now gone.
It looks a bit shorter too, but it’s hard to tell with those untamed curls. One thing I do know is it smells amazing, like fresh mountain air with a hint of citrus.
I hold on to her shoulder to steady her, and reach my other arm around her to hand her my landing net. Just then the nice trout she has on starts flopping wildly.
“You do it,” she urges me, using both hands to hang on to the rod the fish is struggling against.
“Keep your tip up,” I suggest, stepping around her to reach for the fish, scooping it up in my net.
When we get to the bank, I pull my pliers from my vest and with a quick twist, pull the fly from the trout’s mouth.
“Nice catch.”
She’s grinning widely as she lifts the trout from the net, needing two hands to hold it up.
“Yeah, she’s a beaut.” Then she turns a pair of brown sparkling eyes on me. “And you owe me five bucks.”
Her grin is infectious, and I find myself smiling back as I step to the side and point behind me to the patch of grass where I left the brook trout I pulled out of the water moments before she hooked hers.
“I think you’ve got that backward.”
Her mouth falls open. “How’d you manage that? I didn’t hear you.”
“I don’t think you heard anything; you were in the zone.”
She squints her eyes at my fish, and then looks at the one in her hands.
“But mine is bigger,” she concludes.
My laugh is gruff from lack of use, and a little rusty, but I’m getting a kick out of her competitive streak.
