The Borrower (12/28/10)

“Can I borrow your old five weight fly rod?” I asked uncomfortably while making plans to chase trout the day after Christmas with Average Joe Fisherman Scott. I was uncomfortable asking, not because of concern that Scott might say no, I knew he would say yes, but because this was a role I was not use to playing. For well over a decade of fishing together, I was the guy with all the gear and Scott was the borrower. Over the years, more times than not, Scott would need to routinely borrow something. From spinners to dry fly powder, you name it and I’d bet that he had asked to borrow it. It occurred with such regularity that it became a joke between us and got to the point where I would ask him if he needed to borrow anything before we even got in the stream. But now, because I snapped my fly rod two weeks ago, the roles were reversed and it was I who was asking to borrow something of his. While in reality I am positive Scott’s answer to my question was a quick “Sure,” in my head I heard a long drawn out, “Why yes Ryan YOU can borrow MY fly rod.” While Scott would probably never admit it, I am sure that part of him was enjoying our change of fortunes. What goes around comes around I suppose.

Upon leaving my house the day was dark, cold, overcast and reeked of winter. Almost two hours later, arriving at our destination, the day had transformed into a “bluebird” day with a vibrant shinning sun and crisp clear blue skies. As we assembled our gear, and put on multiple layers of clothes, we were joined by a couple of other fisherman who jumped out of their truck and asked if we would be fishing upstream or down. We chatted with the strangers as they suited up. One of the two men brought his son with him, which both Scott and I thought was pretty cool. The other brought a six pack.

Within the first few casts, after we parted company from the other fishermen, my streamer was followed by a nice thirteen inch trout. Scott and I took this as a good sign and thought that it might be a banner day, at least as far as fishing in the winter goes. Two hours later, with nothing to show for our efforts, our conversation was reduced to praying to the fishing gods to allow us to each catch just one.

Finally I had some action as I fished a submerged log on the opposite side of the stream. I placed an accurate cast upstream, mended my line downstream, and watched as the streamer swam along the entire log. I felt an immediate weight as I allowed the streamer to swing in the current as it reached the end of the drift. To my amazement the watered swirled as I set the hook. That is when I saw the large trout. Had we not been fishing a river with obstructions preventing fish from venturing upstream from the Great Lakes, I would have sworn that it was a large lake run brown trout. I screamed “Big fish!” as all twenty four to twenty eight inches of the fish violently began to shake its head. On the third shake, seeing every detail, I witnessed the brown trout snap my line and take my streamer. With my head facing the sky and Scott looking on, I whispered, “Damn.”

Wanting to blame everything other than my lack of skill, I continued to fish. The frozen reel or the ice on my leader was to blame, I was sure of it. Well, not sure, but it made me feel better. About ten minutes later, fishing a run, I hooked into a beautiful eighteen inch brown trout. Thinking that it was poor cancelation prize, I fought it too long, and it spit the streamer.

In an effort to make myself feel better while walking back downstream to the point where the day began, I told Scott that my skills as a streamer fisherman must be improving because I was now, with some regularity, able to coax large trout into hitting my presentation. Scott, being the good friend that he is, said nothing about me being lucky or lacking the skill to actually land the fish.