Chilled to the bone

 

I fished this particular swim every time I fished that beat on the river, always stopping a little before the bend to fish the glide into the deep pool. It was somehow magical, mysterious, I couldn’t pass it by without making a cast or two. It’s not that the swim was a banker, a spot where I always caught, but it drew me back, nevertheless.

I had fished down the entire beat, grimly determined despite the sudden, unexpected squall that caught me without waterproofs, I was soaked through and chilled to the bone, but still drawn to that swim to make my final attempts in the failing light.

I arrived in position and spotted a rise near the far bank from what seemed to be a good fish. I bent to my dry fly box to make an appropriate selection, and was suddenly startled to find an elderly chap standing by my left elbow, his tweeds as soaked through as I was.

“This is a lovely spot” he said, wringing water from his old, flat cap “Do you mind if I watch for a while?”

I agreed, adding “I’m just about to try for a fish over near the far side”. He watched me cast, then we both held our breath as the fly drifted along for a second or two before the trout rose, sucked the fly in and turned down again. I struck and the fish was on!

“Careful,” he said “there’s an awful snag in that deep water, the remains of an old tree which fell in many, many years ago”.

I managed to keep the fight in the glide, playing the Brown carefully, trying to keep it from turning downstream into the deep. At last it began to tire.

“I fished here a long time ago,” said the old gent “and hooked the biggest fish of my life. It was huge and I fought it for what seemed like an age”.

I extended my net handle with my left hand and knelt in the sodden grass ready for the final round of the fight, focused intently on drawing my trout to the rim of the landing net.

“It dived deep,” he continued “and suddenly became snagged solid. I hand pulled my line from upstream, then down, but to no avail. In utter desperation and without hesitation, because I couldn’t bear to lose my best ever fish, I put down the rod and dived in to try to free the line.”

My brownie had ceased the head shaking and was on its side, I began to ease it closer.

“It was cold and dark,” he continued “I followed the line down by touch, but then I too became caught in the old branches, both trousers and jacket were snagged. Instantly, I realised then I was in serious trouble,” he sighed “I never fished again.”

Safely netted, I drew the fish to the bank, unhooked it without removing it from the water, briefly admired its beauty then watched it slip away. I stood, only to find I was completely alone, and no signs of the man, the wet grasses of the bank untrampled save for where I was. My spine felt as cold as ice, and the hairs on the back of my head stood on end.