The Whims of Autumn
(An Excerpt from my book, "The Telling of Waters")
Happy Birthday Dad
Wading out to where the water pressure found
my hip, I stopped with rod held under my arm and surveyed the pool. I was in no
hurry on this autumn morning, having lost the feeling to my fingertips in the
chore of rigging due to the frosted air. A few moments to regain my fingers
would be time well spent for sure. As I had begun to wade into the pool I
disrupted the lives of a flight of Blue-winged teal, which now chortled quietly
in the eddy formed on the far side of the pool along the high bank. While not
content to remain along the tree roots in which they had been hiding amongst,
they were never-the-less comfortable enough with my presence to not take full
flight. Instead, they chose to paddle in the slack water, holding to their
small flight while observing the waterborne intruder that I was. Six in all,
they were beautiful birds, and the chortling they made were a welcome sound to
my ears as it was not unlike the babbling of a streams flow over small rocks.
Hopefully they would accompany me for the duration of my stay.
Off to
my right and in the small field across the way came the baying of a beagle.
Though they were well over 100 yards away I could still see clearly the hunters
walking either side of a small hedgerow in the fresh-cut corn field. A father
and a son, with the father controlling the dog as the son paced him on the far
side of the hedgerow. I could vaguely make out the form of the side-by-side
held over the fathers shoulder with his right hand, as his left hand worked as
if conducting a symphony among his two players, the dog and the boy. After
watching the show for a few minutes I turned back to the stream and the task at
hand. Stripping line off the reel for a cast I noticed how my fingers had
warmed almost back to normal, and the cork in my right hand had a comfortable
warmth about it that was hard to explain.
On the 3rd false cast, the teal had about used up their
patience with me and took to flight using the tail-out of the pool as their
runway. They headed downstream in their initial run, then banked hard coming
around at near head level as they shot upstream like a jet pilot conducting a
fly-by. The whistling of their wings bounced through the air long after they
were out of sight as I stood still to see just how long I could still pick it
up.
The pool was not a large one, nor
too deep really. It was only about 60ft in length, with a rock outcropping at
the midway point off the far bank. That was my target on this fall morning. The
rocks formed a slight peninsula of sorts, and in turn created a fairly deep
slot about 15ft long which always held fish late in the year. My indicator rig
landed just off of that point where intended and my eyes followed it down
stream, watching for the slightest of twitches or any hesitation. Not discouraged with a lack of fish on my
first cast the rig was back upstream with a quick roll-cast in short order. It
looked to be a repeat performance when the indicator made a slight hesitation
upstream and I set the hook. A hefty fish bowed my rod as I lifted the tip high
and played it against itself in the current. Slowly it came to the net,
flashing its red-orange band of fall colors to the surface light as it
stubbornly fought on. But as luck would have it on this fine morning the
antagonist was the victor, and soon enough I was admiring a beautiful 16”
rainbow as it slipped silently back into the stream.
Rinsing my hands quickly in the
stream, the sound of a small gauge shotgun broke the morning’s silence followed
by a hearty laugh and the father congratulating the boy. I looked back out
across the field to witness them both standing side by side holding up a
cottontail as if it were a trophy stag as that little beagle danced around both
of their legs, tail straight up and going back-and-forth. I smiled as I watched
on; caught up in conflicting emotions as on one hand I was admiring something I
could reflect on as a young boy as well, yet somehow feeling on the other hand
like I was intruding on a very special moment for the 3 participants. The man
turned the boy around and placed the rabbit in the back of his vest, then held
his hand on the boys shoulder for a few moments before continuing on their
hunt.
Remembering back, there were so
many fall mornings such as this that I too wore the shoes of that young boy,
though they are long past now. Yet even
though time separates me from the memories, it is often the sound of a shotgun,
the singing of a reel, or just the odd image of a brightly colored autumn leaf
floating by on the current that places me right back at the start. The place
where I can hear 2 car doors close at the parking area instead of just mine,
his voice still carries in the morning air congratulating me as I hook up on a
fish and his hand is once again felt on my shoulder as we admire game taken in
the field together. I see him both with
his light blue fishing cap standing in hip boots, and with his side-by-side
slung back over his shoulder watching on. At times I wonder at whether or not
it’s because he was born on October 10th, or whether it’s because of
all the things we shared between us during this time of year? Either way it
matters not really, but the memories are always the strongest when carried on
the whims of autumn.
