Return to Midstream

My legs were still numb from the knees down, and my joints were stiff and sore.

"That’s the chemo," Dr. Collin said. "It’s collected in several parts of your body. Don’t worry. It will fade in time." His voice was reassuring.

It had been two months since my last treatment. The cancer had retreated as predicted. The doctor felt sure it would not be back.

"We’ll knock it right back out if it does," he had said smiling.

Easy for you to say, your body’s not the battlefield.

I was fifty pounds lighter and terribly weak. My muscle had been pared to nothing. So much for all that working out! My skin was the color of fresh cream with only a few sickly wisps of hair remaining on my head. Necessary dues for the chemi-cals that purged the disease. Was "The Victory" a pyrrhic one? Can I go back to my life? What will it be like now?

During the grey gloom of winter, when the treatments were at their worst, I had spent so many hours lying in bed reviewing my short life, tallying the pluses and minuses again and again.

Not much of a life.

Being young can be frightening enough as one begins to face the rigors of adulthood. Being young with cancer is a quantum leap in fear. I had just turned twenty-five when I learned the lump under my arm was malignant. Happy Birthday! You’re going to die, I thought bitterly. A cruel diagnosis was made even worse by a nightmarish treatment. At the best, it felt like the flu. At the worst, it was feeling my body rot and decay like a discarded piece of meat. I became a zombie in my own horror movie.

Thinking about fishing had been my best escape when the realities of illness became too much to bear. This was nothing new. I always retreated to fishing, my favorite pastime, in times of crisis. It was the one thing, for sure, that could offer sanctuary.

Bringing fishing magazines and catalogs to my chemo sessions, I tried to read the articles, but usually ended up just staring at the pictures in between being sick to my stomach. Through the vomiting, diarrhea, and fevers, I hoped to someday be back on one of my favorite rivers and casting the waters in search of brookies, browns, ‘bows, and even some smallmouth bass or bream. I imagined those fish twisting and darting at the end of my line, silhouettes against the rock and sand of the river bed, sometimes leaping clear of the water and shaking their heads to spit the hook, red gills flaring, and then tumbling back in to begin another run with the current. These thoughts kept me going as the nights dragged on and, at times, merged with each other to form long dark tunnels of time.

That "someday" had finally arrived. It was June.The weather had warmed after a long, cold winter. The trees and grasses were again lush and green. Some bulk had already returned to my arms and legs. That terrible pallor was gone and dark stubble had replaced the baldness.

Although Dr. Collin had cleared me for physical activity, I had done little more than walk around my neighborhood a couple times each day. There was no point in fishing the spring crests because the fast, deep water would have overwhelmed me. It was best to wait until I felt strong enough to wade at least a few hundred yards with no difficulty before planning a fishing trip. Wading the slower parts of the river, coming directly out at the first sign of tiring, sounded like a good plan. Before the cancer I had been a fearless wader "floating my hat" on more than one occasion in some of the fastest, coldest waters. There was some shame in my new found timidity.

With ample free time, I had already tuned up my tackle, putting line back on the reels and cleaning both, practicing casting in the backyard, and making sure my flies, leaders, tippets, and general "stuff" was all sorted out. My dad had to tie up some flies for me because my finger tips were still numb from the chemo. I had missed the Hendrickson and Mahogany hatches as well as some of the olives and caddis. Messing around at some of the access and launching sites catching "dinks" was hardly a substitute.

I remained cautious. It always frightened me when that occasional wave of fatigue would come on. While less frequent now, the feeling was one of complete exhaustion. It was like being drained of all power and life. There was a fear of wading down river and not having the energy to get back.What would I do then?

After a combined stretch of no rain and cooler temperatures, it was time to go. It would be a solo trip to a familiar part of one of my favorite rivers.

The road to the spot was winding and hilly. Every now and then the river would appear on the right, a brown band wrinkled by currents and flecked in spots with the white of fast water. Soon I was at the bridge, stomach full of "butterflies" for a change.

Here the river dropped into a valley, some slopes reaching nearly two-hundred feet,nothing epic, but still tricky and challenging for even the hearty and hale. There were paths and short cuts, well worn dirt trails beaten into the underbrush, trees to grab for balance, and holes in fences to permit easy passage. Straying from these areas usually meant poison ivy or sumac, massive thorn bushes, mud holes, and the occasional Massasauga rattlesnake. I’d had my share of these encounters and now knew better. I kept to the straight and narrow and could navigate home on even the darkest nights.

There was a clear, wide path by the bridge with only a slight incline. Normally, this was avoided because it lead to an area that was over-fished. But it was safe and easy access tonight.

Adjusting my waders to a tight fit, I made sure to include and cinch the belt. I had my five weight with a selection of Sulphurs, March Browns, Cahills, Grey and Brown Drakes, as well as some stone flies. As always, my dad had provided me with several Adams, his favorite pattern, and a couple of Hex, although everyone felt it was too early for these big bugs.

"Whatcha eating tonight boys?" I said out loud and took note from the absence of parked vehicles that probably no one else was on this section of river. I guess that’s a good thing.

It felt fine maneuvering down the bank. Here the slope fell off well before the river allowing for plenty of flat land to walk on. I chose a cove behind a large fallen tree that provided still, ankle-deep water to fish the pool below a rapids.

A couple of small frogs jumped as I entered the water, and minnows and crawfish darted about in front of me. There was a rich smell from the pungent aroma of mud and silt. And, my nose caught a whiff of decay from a dead sucker lying by some cattails. I moved out into the river leaving a trail of silt clouds in the water.

The river was clear and the water cool. The acrid smell was replaced by the pine-like scent of the trees. The banks were dominated by evergreens with several large oaks and maples interspersed along the way. Bushes and smaller trees of unknown types filled in the gaps creating, in most spots, an impenetrable wall of wood and leaf. Cattails and bulrushes stood in bunches on parts of the river bank indicating swampy areas by their presence. So tall and thick was the growth that most of the river was in shadow now and it was only just after seven.

I stood on the edge of the tree--an old elm--and surveyed the rapids. The water was moving swiftly. It made gurgling sounds and turned white as it slid over the rocks. I hurriedly tied on a Sulphur, anxious to get under way. Unlike my dad, I do try to match hatches, but without being too picky. There are spinners and duns and that’s about it for me. The first knot was no good, so it had to be cut. "Settle down!" I said harshly, adding a curse at the end.

The second knot was fine so I trimmed it down and made a cast upstream.

Nothing.

"Nice start," I told the dangling fly. This time I aimed directly across the stream and allowed the fly to fade down river with a mend of the line. Just as the fly was about to drag there was a flash in the water. My line went tight and a brown, maybe ten inches long, jumped twice before boring into a pool to the right of me. I let the fish run while holding the rod tip high. It rose, swam left then right, gave a feeble jump, and tired. It was netted, the hook quickly removed, and the fish gently set back in the water for release. There was relief that it had not swallowed the fly too deeply. The trout scooted back into mid stream.

Fishing the same area for the next hour or so yielded six more browns, none as big as the first, and two rainbow, neither as large as my hand. There were a couple of missed takes as well, and that was fine. The rhythm was coming back.

I moved upstream to fish a deep bank on the opposite shore. The cut ran about forty yards and was heavily shaded with overhanging trees and bushes. This gave the water a dark, brownish-green tint. It was a good spot to find big ones waiting to ambush a meal. Many fishermen passed up the place because the branches made it a tough cast. I was rusty from inactivity, but this would be a good fishing spot close to the out.

A mayfly hatch was starting. Little white specs were squirming on the surface of the river. Every now and then there would be a sharp splash as a fish would slurp one right in the cut. They were Light Cahills and the fish were tuning in on them. I put one on. Seeing there were only two other Cahills in the box, it was clear that efficient casting was a must in order not to lose them all in the bushes.

My first two casts came up short because I was concerned about putting the fly in the trees. The next one went too deep and landed in the greenery. I deftly twitched it out (after years of long casts this was almost second nature) and reset. Four more tries also missed the mark and twice the fly had to be snapped off. This meant the agonizing chore of adding tippet and fly during an active feed. One of a fly fisher’s "little hells." It was getting darker and the hatch was thickening. I was becoming discouraged.

"Come on and fish right, you idiot!" I cried, becoming increasingly frustrated by the inability of my numb fingers to manipulate 4x tippet and #12 flies. "You’ve done a lot harder things." Taking a couple deep breaths, heart racing from activity and emotion, I cleared the mind, made the knots,and cast the line.

It landed perfectly. Finally! I threw a mend and let it drop down the river. Two more casts and the same thing. Then there was a nice roll near the fly, but no take. The fish may have fed on something behind the fly as it drifted by. Instinctively, I reloaded and cast again, further above the roll, setting up a float over where the fish might be holding. The phony Cahill bobbed its way into the feeding zone. I was ready with my rod tip low and fingers tight on the line.

If you fish for awhile you no longer think about a strike, it just happens. There’s a hole in the water where your fly was a moment ago and the right arm brings the rod up while the left arm strips the line toward the reel. If it’s all done properly, and God there are so many times when it’s not, there’s a nice upside down "C" in your rod. Then the fun really begins.

I had hooked a good one. A tremendous pull arched my rod and caused me to quickly extend my arms while doing the best I could at managing the line with my fingers. The line was following the fish as it ran quickly down stream. In the blink of an eye, the reel screeched in protest as more line played out. Not thinking this could happen, I had not adjusted my drag before starting to fish, but did so now. This fish was going to run hard and it had the current as an ally.

About fifty feet in front of me the water exploded. A brown trout longer than my arm hung momen-tarily in the air framed by its own spray. It fell back down and leaped again, this time shaking its head violently in an effort to throw the hook. Then it took off with the current again. The reel continued its mad whir as the line grew thin around the spool.

I felt dizzy and out of breath. Oh great! Pass out from fatigue while fighting a fish. When will you stop acting like a sick man? Moving toward the fish in an effort to regain line, I began to feel better. It had stopped its run after about thirty yards, not quite to the backing. Now it was slashing around the surface and moving about in a deep, dark "V" pattern. Gently, I began to pull and crank. Getting some line back on the reel made sense because otherwise there would be line all over the place come time to net the creature if I was so fortunate. (It was not until much later that I realized the fish could not have been netted because my net was too small.) The fish turned, giving me back much of the line it had taken. Now I got a better look at it. The trout was probably ten pounds at least, darker and more heavily spotted than any I’d caught in the past. Parts of it even had a reddish brown hue. An old warhorse. Probably fought your share of battles out here. The lunker, far from beat, pulled off toward the deep cut. Headed for home, eh? I pulled back and raised my rod tip not wanting the fish to dive into deep water where it could wrap the line around some underwater structure.

The fight was a standoff for several seconds, neither side giving an inch.

My heart was pounding hard and my arms were beginning to shake. The excitement was taking its toll. Hang on! Hang on! You can do it...nice and easy!

The fish shot out of the deep water and headed upstream, turned, slashed on the surface, cut right, then left...

The line went slack.

The big dark golden and olive fish had popped the tippet and, having won the encounter, faded like a shadow into the deep water.

I stood in the middle of the river for a while and caught my breath. It felt for a moment like it would never come back. And then, slowly, I was able to relax.

You’re not going to fade away, I reassured myself. There was no anger at losing the fish.

By now the hatch was really cooking. The air was full of the white flies, fluttering every which way. It was like a blizzard. Surrounded by insects tickling at my skin, flying in my ears, up my nose, and into my mouth, I cleared them out not caring. The surface of the river was carpeted with white, like fresh fallen snow. Everywhere fish were popping the water in a feeding frenzy. There was plenty for all. I remembered last January and February, lying on my bed, at the height of the chemo treatments, watching the snow fall outside the window and wondering if things would ever be ok again. Here was the answer.

I turned and made my way towards shore. No sense in fishing anymore tonight. The fish had taken my last Cahill. It was getting dark and the trout were too "bug-eyed" with the hatch to take an artificial anyway. There would be other hatches.

Suddenly, I tripped and fell headlong into the water. It was only about three feet deep. My numb, tired legs had not alerted me to a rock in the water. I came up uninjured, but soaking wet.

"You klutz," I laughed and then felt around the river bottom to see if anything had been lost in the fall. With all this padding around I feel like a bear hunting salmon. After a minute I got back on my feet satisfied that nothing was gone and sloshed to the bank.

Once on land I looked back at the river. Now some birds and bats were circling through the white cloud of insects. Their wings whispering in the twilight. It was a short walk back to the car, no problem at all. I made my way up the path with the lights of fireflies blinking all around. RWOL

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