Illiteracy goes best with butter and a beer.

The River is cold today. As per usual. It is glacier fed and never warms up much. I think of it as my River River, the one with untold memories and ageless beauty. A secret place, a stream with no beginning and no end. A place to revisit in old age to recant one's youthful chases of forgotten dreams. Or to enjoy in the present.

And it is truly a glorious day, a sunny day, a day for abusing technology, to get out properly far in the bush for a little communion with BMN. (That's Big Mother Nature, in case you felt left out, there.) We were doing the ATV thing in those days, so getting out wasn't the problem. Getting back could be, though. Oy veh; all terrain vehicles. Big bush, big bikes, big fun, big trouble, big hurt when you fell off. That sort of thing.

Magic marks the spot

This particular day we were on some sandbars, at one of our favourite spots. It's in a bend of the river. The access is steep, and there are ruts and water holes, but that is part of the challenge. And the fun.

So I get down the bank, get on through everything in my way. And breathe. Look around. Read last nights story in the sand. I always thought of that place as some kind of newsletter from BMN. Great headlines.

BMN NEWS! EXTRA, EXTRA! READ ALL ABOUT IT! Coon kills frog! It's murder one in the bush! Book'em Daniel!

A proper news hound

But I am not reading much this morning. I am bothering the fish. Making news, perhaps. We'll see. I have brought my fly rod. The trusted old beater, my first one. Travelled many a mile, it did.

I have affixed today a self-tied, knotted, tapered leader and a little fuzzy something or other with a bright spot on it. And I am now in the water. Didn't have waders in those days. Came later. For now, endurance rules. The cold river water is rushing up to my butt. Wet hanky in my pocket. The sun is warm, though, and my shirt is off. And I am casting.

Or more properly, just swishing the rod a little. Sort of shaking the rust off, if you know what I mean. 'Been awhile since the last time. But wait a sec. I spot something. There, over there on the other side. Near where the willow overhangs the log jam. Movement. For sure rainbows feeding. On what, I don't know. Something revolting, no doubt. Doesn't matter, I need to concentrate.

In for a penny

I am in as far as I will go. My line is out as far as it will go. At least with an idiot like me waving it around. And I am not sure about this at all. I have to make a long cast and undershoot the willows. That's tricky with a sloppy technique like mine.

So I take the Nansen approach, the Fridtjof guy, famous from his polar explorations. "Nothing is impossible, the impossible just takes a little longer." Being impatient, I take about 30 seconds before I work up a real long back swing and seriously overpower the rod an the last forward move.

The master's touch

Then I kind of shoot the line out a bit too high. On purpose. 'Cause I kind of just pull back on the line a little just before it is all out. To sort of just stretch the leader out a little. Then the hard part. I quickly lower the rod before the line loses all momentum and the fly glides on just under the branches. Hot diggety! A proud cast. Man this is great. I am ready for success here, in a big way.

Cruising for trouble

And the fly floats merry. On and on. I give out line. It is looping badly in the stream. Trouble. The loop stretches out and begins tugging at the fly in the way all textbooks say is definitely non sequiteur.

This assumes, I think, that the rainbows can read. I haven't done a Ph.D. on this, OK, but I have ample anecdotal evidence to the fact that the rainbows along the River River are truly and surely illiterate.

One of the suckers strike. Isaac Walton would of died. Me I yanked. On the line. And the fight is on.

A moment to notice

Hey, ain't life grand. With a light rod you feel every vibration from the fish. With a fragile leader you know he could be gone any moment. Gotta keep the rod up and control that line. And slowly it is happening. Success. Skill. Luck. Call it what you want. It's just glory when it all comes together like just now, when everything just clicks, when all is right with the world for a moment. My moment. Sorry, yours will have to wait.

A truth to concede

And thus I gaze upon my prize. The rainbow is truly wonderful; shiny, silvery. Its speckles colourful and vibrant. The most wonderful fish I ever caught. What the heck, why lie; every fish I ever caught was wonderful. The most wonderfullest is always the last one I just landed. But, OK.

Of all the rainbows I call mine, which is indeed a lesser number than I care to admit, the River River trout tastes the best. A little secret for you. Illiteracy goes great with a little butter and a beer. Especially when done up right there on the front page of BMN News with a dry alder fire. Ain't metaphysics grand, eh? Besides, I like to read when I eat.

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