Do Overs

There was a time a few years back ( minimizing 15 years ) when the Pinch,
Rick and I would not miss a hatch on the river with two names. Rick was our mentor and guide to the other side. He is more subdued and elegant with his passion than his two sidekicks. No doubt that Rick had lit a fuse under both of us that wouldn’t be put out. The obsessive behavior would start the minute any of us heard that there might be a hatch anywhere, Day or night. A touch of entomology, touch geography, and a touch of wonderful insanity. Phone calls “Where? ” ” What time?”Which meant the three of us would get there an hour early, rendezvousing at the secret spot or the other secret spot.

Preparing for battle with brown trout is no easy task. Like any addiction, obsessing is where most of the energy is given. The hours reading about trout, talking to the elders about the streams and access, paging through hatch guides, and looking for equipment (swag) that would make the battle smoother. All this obsessive behavior for the opportunity to fake out a small Salmo trutta, or just maybe a large one.

I let it all go for a portion of time, and not sure why, but life has a way of giving you different choices, along with just getting in the form of things. Rick, I’m sure, kept his obsessive quest of being on a stream under control with continued steady participation. The Pinch, well, let’s just say that he upped his game. Moving to the southwest part of the state of Wisconsin, where the abundance of streams and rivers seems endless. Started guiding for a local fly shop. Tying flies were works of art with names that would inspire anyone with a sense of humor. The Alf- fly, Red October deadliest fly, Corona Virus fly, The Mick Jagger fly, and so many more. The daily ability to feed his passion was now a reality. The early season that started in January only left a few months of withdrawals. His jones was almost kept in check with tying flies in the off-season, but you could hear the need in his voice in December. It was like wanting a cigarette but not having a match.

Years slip by fast the older you get. I’m a man of great intentions and a man who is diverted very easily. It was at least 6 years since I had joined Pinch in a stream, I Retired now, and my excuse box had run out. I made a late May trip to the Driftless to meet the Pinch for a bit of stream time. I arrived mid-morning Pinch was waiting, sitting on his porch looking relaxed but at the same time, I could feel how anxious he was to get his Day going. A tour of the garden and an explanation of his new sculpture in his yard. Where the stone came from to the description of the neighbor, he had borrowed the stone drill. It was a beginning of a fabulous piece, Tall and everything in place where it had beautiful space and belonged in the environment of their yard. Stunning front yard, but the view from the rear of their home is breathtaking. Looking over the river valley to the hills beyond with a menagerie of colors and shapes. The fog rises and falls over the river like the curtain in a theater. What a dramatic landscape of the magnificent terrain of the Driftless, and a daily intake of beauty

Wading pants on, vest on, rods rigged and placed in the Honda CRV with 250 thousand miles of stories of the fishing the Driftless.”Do you want to fish easy or hike in?” “Easy” was my quick reply. Pinch put in a CD, and we began our trek up and down the single-lane roads. Everywhere I looked, it was green, lush spring. Pinch informed me of river projects and a smidgen of local politics. Pointing out places where he had experienced, tested, and succeeded in his quest. I listened to his passion for every river bend we passed and his longing to share more.

We drove down a gravel road, passing a repaired area of a stream. At that moment, I realized how Pinch’s driving had improved when he made a parking move like a New York Cab Driver. I knew that I needed a wading staff at my age, but with the ridge, he was taking me down, I wasn’t sure we would get back up. I followed him: a position I was very familiar with over the years, through a couple fields. Pinch always takes the path of least resistance. We arrived a bit out of breath and certainly warmer with still wearing the third layer of clothes. The sky is as blue as robin eggs, with the cumulus clouds watching. The birds were serenading, and a hint of summer warmth from the sun at times. Everything seemed to be in place.

Once we were in position on the stream, Pinch took enormous time taking in his surroundings. Letting everything around settle down and return to normal before our first cast. Pinch considers the wind, water temperature, and what the stream gives him as he plans his strategy; he hands me a beetle. I was surprised that it had no name, but I said nothing and put my old fingers and eyes to work tying the small beetle on my leader. Nothing was making its way to the surface to feed. A few Sulphur mayflies eventually came off but did not draw any attention. I watched Pinch throw his line out effortlessly, the line gently laying on the water, allowing the leader and fly to float naturally. His rhythm in his false cast was eloquent and precise. Never a cast for distance but a cast for full presentation. The wind picked up, and we made the change to ants, and the catching and releasing began. A euphoric recall of hours on the streams with Rick and the Pinche. I found my joy way before we started faking out the trout. It began the minute I saw that look still in Pinche’s eyes and the excitement in his voice of just going fishing. It was a good day, and it felt so good to feel the sanity of the insanity.