I met a trout in Western Colorado. This fish was full of self-confidence, and knew no haste. Because I could not rise for him, he kindly rose for me.
The meeting occurred on Mesa Lake, at an elevation of 10,500 feet. My college friend Victor, an avid fisherman knowledgeable in the ways of Colorado trout, took me to this place. We had to drive through snow and 35 degree weather to reach the lake, but I was glad we did. It was clean and cold and pristine.
We fished without success for most of the day. Though I saw many rises, the fish were not interested in what I was offering. Trout are like that. They are the finickiest animals alive. Once, I set down a Renegade with a respectable cast and watched it float next to a real aquatic insect. From a distance, the two looked alike, and I was just congratulating myself for my success in matching the hatch when a discerning trout rose up and snatched the real thing, ignoring my fly mere inches away. This trout displayed not the slightest hesitation or ambivalence in choosing. We anglers may flatter ourselves in selecting and casting our flies accurately, but trout are not easily impressed.
My encounter occurred in the afternoon, just before we had planned to leave. I was fishing with a simple Caddis fly, of which I carry many. Suddenly I felt that peculiar tug, which triggers the release of adrenaline and sets the nerves tingling no matter how many times it is experienced. The rod, previously straight, bent at an ungainly angle. This tug was more than peculiar. It was powerful. I knew I had hooked a large fish. Reflexively, I pulled back and set the hook. Usually, when a hook is set, the fish dives down into deeper water. But this fish did something different. Instead of diving down, he rose up, high above the surface. He wasn’t thrashing to escape. He was showing off, flaunting his size and beauty.
I had a good look at him, all 20 inches of rainbow, I would say. (Inevitably, his size will grow in future retellings.)
Then he was below the surface again, and I was slowly leading him toward the shore, careful to keep the line taut, as he grudgingly accepted or seemed to accept his fate. The tension in the line was interspersed with the trout’s struggles, which pulsed through the line.
And then, as the line, fly, and fish all neared the shore, the tension changed. It no longer jerked spasmodically. The tension was constant and consistent.
The trout had shrewdly dived under a log, and the tension I was feeling was not the struggling trout, but only the steady pull against the log. The line itself was caught on the underside of the log, allowing the trout to shake itself free of the hook and escape.
It was about time to go, and Victor was already taking off his boots and waders. The trout, in his temerity, had allowed me to get a good look at him as he rose above the surface and hung there in the air, his body contorting with piscine power. I was sad to lose such a magnificent trout, but I should not have been. If he hadn’t made it to safety under the log, if I had succeeded in bringing him to the shore, the result would have been the same. I would have extracted the hook as quickly as possible (trout cannot live out of water for long), and eased him back into the lake. The trout had simply de-hooked himself, doing the work for me. So there was little cause for regret.
Victor had had a similar experience, hooking a fish but losing it before he could bring it to shore. Still, we were both happy as we drove down from the mesa, to his home. We reminisced about college courses and co-eds of 50 years ago, and we laughed. I thought of the trout that got away, and imagined him gliding across his cold, watery domain, also laughing.
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