A River Trilogy

by W. D. Wetherell

  And, just for the record, it’s the bait fishermen you want to talk to if you’re interested in learning equally about the fish and the region. Too many flyfishers these days are too narrowly focused on their pursuit, too businesslike and competitive to spare much time for my random kind of sightseeing; then, too, flyfishers you see on the river are apt to be from elsewhere, without much in the way of local knowledge. Spin fishermen, many of them, are pretty much just out for the afternoon, and when it comes to learning about the river, few have paid the requisite dues. No, what you want is the classic worm-chucking old-timer (by old-timer I mean anyone between the ages of fourteen and a hundred who fishes alone and obsessively and ponders the implications of what they discover), though once upon a recent time, to flyfishers with illusions of purity, these were apt to be viewed as our enemy. Secretive when they’re fishing, they’re talkative when you catch them at ease, and, like the teenager leaving me his secrets or the old man with his tragic stories, they’re invaluable sources of information on the river you’re trying your damnedest to figure out.

  The hatch I was waiting for has started now right on schedule—little sulphur duns whose color is halfway between the white of a Cahill and the yellow of a daffodil just past its prime. The pool I’m fishing is a slow, even one, where the current, running broken along the Vermont bank, slides to the east, widens and slows, creating a living-room-sized terrace (with boulders for armchairs) that is almost always dappled with feeding trout. Catchable trout—for a change I feel pretty certain of this, and thus take my time getting ready, giving me the opportunity to go back again to one of the points I made earlier.

  It concerns the river being the one locus of beauty in an otherwise hard-pressed land. Fishing the tributary streams, hiking the woods, driving the back roads, spending much time in town, you get the feeling that there is indeed much in the way of beauty here in this northern wedge of land, and yet it seems to come at you through a gauze, a scrim, that all but makes you rub your eyes in bewilderment, trying to clear them so you can see things plain. It’s partially a scrim of poverty: the sense you have, even today, of what brutalities can be inflicted upon a land where the growing season is six weeks too short; a recognition that beauty is not a word that can be tossed around lightly in this kind of world, not with the shortcuts, stopgaps, and scraping that is visible on every hand. And yet, go down to the river, spend your days in its pastoral corridor, and the scrim literally dissolves; words like lush or lovely, prissy absurdities when applied anywhere else in the north country, suddenly become fully applicable, so it makes you see not just the Connecticut, but the entire region with a gentler, more forgiving kind of appreciation.

  Wading out toward those fish, tugging line down from my reel preparatory to casting, picking out my spot, I’m aware not only of the merging cobalt rings spread across the current by the trouts’ inhalations, not only the yellow-blue surge of water where the lowering sun hits the river and thickens it, but the tall, seed-heavy meadow grass that begins on the bank, the bristly hedgerow of sumac, black cherry, and ash, the first sloping esker with its birch and white pine, the staircase of spruce-covered mountains that leads toward the coral-dark sky—Vega at the top of it, the high steady beacon of a midsummer’s eve.

  “What a land!” I say to myself, not for the first time. “What a river!” I want to shout.

  Ten minutes left of dusk in which to appreciate it all—just time enough to end on a personal note, expose to light what my mind kept chewing over when it should have been concentrating on those trout. It was about the boy I met earlier in the season, the logger who was bailing out for the Marines. I thought of him, and in a strange way that surprised me; I realized I envied him, and not just a little.

  What’s going on here? A dead-end job, telling the boss to shove it, going off to the tender mercies of boot camp—no, it wasn’t envy of any of these. Envy instead of what he probably hated most in himself: of having this hard, bitter land as the place he grew up in, the region he will—for better or worse—compare every other with for the rest of his days. I suppose it’s a mixed blessing—mixed for those who leave, just as it is for those who hunker down and stay. Live your whole life in such a landscape and between tears and exhaustion and familiarity, the beauty disappears; it’s someone like me, neither local nor stranger, who, when it comes to appreciation, has the priceless vantage point of standing halfway in between.

  In this respect—and here again I’m speaking most personally—almost anything would be better than being from the suburbs. When that boy searches his memory one day it will be of dark forests and impetuous rivers and snowstorms in October; when I search mine, it’s of patios and split-levels and manicured front lawns, spiced with nothing more romantic than the occasional vacant lot. I think of Chekhov, born into a family of peasants, vowing to squeeze the serf from his soul drop by hateful drop—and remember as a young man vowing in much the same way that I would force everything suburban from my soul or die trying. Hence, I suppose, those long hours on the river in all kinds of weather, fishing long past the point of exhaustion, dreaming about the river when I’m away, coming back every chance I get. Much has changed in my life—and yet the cleansing still goes on.

  And maybe all this helps explain the feeling that comes over me sometimes that this hard northern land, with the river as its mouthpiece, is speaking to me quite plainly and directly—that if I haven’t succeeded in articulating its message here, it’s my own fault, not the regions. Certainly, having this feeling . . . of embrace, of acceptance, of an odd and powerful kind of pity . . . is a good, reassuring sign that I’m that much closer to understanding the river, making it, in the vain way we speak of such things, mine. If stage one was that first specific reconnaissance, then stage two is this working toward a more general, wider appreciation . . . and this is what I flattered myself that I had now, as, a tall shadow in a forest of round ones, I climbed out of the current, reached the crest of the bank, then turned my head quickly back toward the river like a man trying to catch it unawares.

  June 9

  Just when you think you’ve seen it all is the time to start admitting you’ve seen nothing. This is as true with sporting atrocities as it is with cultural ones, though I’m not sure which to file the following under. Twenty-four hours after the event, I’m still fuming, and write this partly in the hopes it will prove therapeutic.

  Perfect weather. June and gloriously so, temperature topping out at seventy, the water at a perfect fifty-five. Lilacs at their peak—bouquets line the road. Mayflies on our windshield so dense and yet so airy it’s as if a special welcoming committee is draping my Toyota in a fine muslin sheet. Visions of plentitude, visions of grandeur. Thirty-fish day? Thirty epiphanies? Both feel in reach.

  Then, the fall to earth. Our favorite spot, our secret spot, a gray Mercedes parked there in its insufferably squat, arrogant way. Empty rod cases in back. Silver nails in our golden hopes.

  Ray and I make a good team. He’s good at speechless indignation; I like to curse. “Fuck!”

  (A quick calming reminder to myself from Father Walton: “I would you were a brother of the Angle, for a companion that is cheerful, and free from swearing and scurrilous discourse, is worth gold.”)

  Nothing for it but to saddle up and wade right in; the situation is a bit similar to finding someone else in bed with your lover—a fatal compulsion draws you on to see the worst. Two flyfishermen, right in the current where, without any surface indication, it deepens into a long narrow run full of some of the largest, feistiest trout in the entire river. “How you doing, Doctor?” one of the fishermen shouts, as he starts a new cast. “Fine, Doctor, how you doing over there?” his friend shouts back. “Just fine, Doctor! You nail ‘em, hear?” “Okay, Doctor! Hit ‘em hard yourself!”

  Ray and I are sitting on the bank taking all this in. “What does this mean?” I ask quietly. Ray shrugs. “Maybe they’re doctors?”

  Noisy ones. They shout back and forth in that
macho small talk you hear a lot of on the river these days—it’s as if everyone not only is being fed their lines from the Saturday-morning fishing shows, but have adopted the Southern accent to match.

  Ray is crestfallen and angry; this is his spot more than it is mine, the one he discovered by many hours of exploration and the divining rod of his own splendid intuition. In all the times we’ve fished here we’ve never had company, so I’m pissed, too. What both of us suffer from, ultimately, is the fact that we’re lucky or unlucky enough to have fallen in love with fly fishing many years before it became a fad, setting up that familiar and not very pleasant syndrome (seven parts protective jealousy, two parts sincere amazement, one part snobbery in reverse) of having the rest of the world discover something you’ve been in love with all along.

  But that’s not the atrocity. The atrocity is this.

  Both men catch fish. That these are chub—that the fishermen loudly identify these with exuberant whoops of victory as trout—adds a little ironic frisson to our indignation, but does little to erase the scar. As they fish, they become further separated, so the younger of the two, the one with the waxed cotton hat, is now directly below us, backlit by the sun, which is still not quite clear of the trees on the New Hampshire bank.

  “He’s got something wrong with his neck,” Ray says. “Watch.” I watch—and realize it’s not a crick in his neck at all, but that he has his head tucked in tight toward his shoulder, holding by this pressure, as he continues to cast, a cellular phone.

  “He’s on the phone.”

  “On the what!”

  Ray squints, sees for himself, blinks, blinks again, sighs—collapses backward in a faint that seems real.

  Who’s this man calling? His patients, telling them he’ll be late? His friends, telling them where he is, feeding them the exact coordinates of his fishing position? He catches another chub now, reels it in while he continues talking, then, releasing the chub, bringing the phone down, presses in a number, sticks it back there against his neck, resumes talking. His casual absorption reminds me, more than anything, of a secretary talking on the phone as she polishes her nails.

  A beautiful river, a perfect day, a tonic to the senses. All this means nothing to him—for him, it’s just another in the endless series of places where he can be reached.

  (Flash again to Father Izaak: “And for you that have heard many grave serious men pity Anglers; let me tell you, Sir; there are many men that are by others taken to be serious and grave men, which we condemn and pity.”)

  By the time anyone reads this, the phenomenon of flyfishers talking on the phone in the middle of the river will probably be old hat, with catalogs offering special waterproof models just for this purpose, your choice of camouflage or dark Orvis green. I realize that many people probably see absolutely nothing wrong with conducting business or making social calls while they stalk trout, or, to put it another way, feel vulnerable and disconnected if their phone isn’t constantly in reach. I also realize that many people like to fly fish via the Internet, transform their favorite fishing spots into digits that are broadcast around the world. I realize there are guidebooks and videos available for every major river in North America, taking you by the hand and leading you pool by pool in great detail. I realize, too, that one of this country’s most successful businesses is the manufacture and sale of electronic fish finders—that there are millions of people who, spending their working day in front of marching electrons, enjoy spending their leisure hours sitting in boats watching electrons fish for them.

  I could have some ironic fun with this, or change gears and wax bitter; better, perhaps, to bite my tongue in silence and slink back toward the 1940s, where I belong. But there does seem to be one point in all this worth extracting once again: that secrecy, long considered to be among a fisherman’s most characteristic and endearing traits, seems to be taking it on the chin these days, and I think it’s time it was restored as one of the highest of fishing virtues.

  Late yesterday afternoon, as we were eating dinner at the Wilderness Restaurant in Colebrook before going back out, still mad over the phone stuff, who should amble over to our table but a couple of fly fishermen I know casually from home.

  “How’s the fishing?” they asked.

  “Great,” I said (for we’d done well once the doctors had left). “Six trout each, decent size, all on top.”

  Their eyes lit up—it hadn’t been a good day for them. “Where?” they demanded.

  “Well, you go—” I felt a telepathic something in the air, hesitated, looked up to see Ray staring at me very intently; if eyes were feet, his pupils were kicking me on the shin.

  “You go down—that way,” and I pointed.

  “That way?” they asked.

  “Yeah, you know. Down that way by where the river is.”

  “Oh, that way,” they said, and nodded.

  All four of us sat there over our coffees not saying much, not having to. These were experienced flyfishers after all. They had probed, we had defended, so what else was there to say?

  That someone who not only talks about the rivers he loves, but writes about them, is a bit vulnerable in the secrecy department is something, believe me, I’m fully aware of. In my defense, I’m known for including my share of protective obscuration; one of the most frequent responses I get to my books, when meeting someone who knows them, is having them shake their head, say something to the effect of, “That pool you call The Pet Store. I couldn’t quite figure out exactly where you meant.” Damn straight you couldn’t figure out where I meant, I feel like saying, I’m dumb, but not that dumb.

  (Regarding Ray’s secret run, it’s worth mentioning that I’ve made it up entirely. It’s not on the Connecticut at all, not even in New England, not even in the Western Hemisphere; nope, not even on this planet, so there’s no use you’re searching for it this side of heaven. That okay, Ray?)

  So, my fellow flyfishers, the time has come to bring secrecy back into our gentle pastime—the tight lips, the polite shrug, the knowing wink. Be generous with your help to beginners, praise a river all you want, help strangers out with tactics and flies, try to show them by word and deed what fly-fishing ethics are all about, but when it comes to your favorite spots, cherish them in secret, keep your mouth shut—and leave the godamn electronics at home.

  The New River (3)

  Some lessons I’ve learned . . .

  That there is a special way flyfishers talk about a river, see a river; regard it, that it is all but incomprehensible to someone who doesn’t share our obsession. The argot of line weight, tippet diameter, a rod’s pliability; tackle craft and the complicated minutiae that goes with it; the specialized references to insects, with their erudite flavoring of Latin; the shop talk of flies, referred to now by the name of their inventors, now by their descriptive nicknames, generating words that are as colorful and vivid as any in our language; the fascination with current and depth, bottom and cover, the geological lingo, the fluvial one; the calendar that has nothing to do with the Gregorian, but marks off the season in hatches, stream temperatures, water levels, and spawnings; the map, the vivid and raised map, of fishing success and fishing failure, superimposed over a graph of good days and bad, endlessly perused for its lessons; the body language of leaping hands, painful grimaces, melodramatic shudders—the puzzled frown, the slow rueful shake of the head, the shrug that says it all. All these contribute, so it’s quite possible for two fishermen, comparing notes on a river, to talk in a language that to the uninitiated sounds as arcane as Greek, and yet to flyfishers is remarkably universal, an Esperanto of the fishing passion.

  This language has only one goal: to speak of the river in a way that leads to the catching of more and bigger trout. The verbs, the nouns, the adjectives—all these are used like an abstract kind of fly, one we toss around fairly wildly at times, yet which must be chosen with intelligence and deliberation, carefully fastened to our purpose, thoughtfully delivered, attentively followed as
it works its way across the water toward the fish it’s meant to snare.

  That the most important and vexing factor in fishing the Connecticut is water level. The upper part of the river drains a large and turbulent watershed, with tributaries that come down from high soggy plateaus on the Vermont side and snowy uplands on the New Hampshire, so in most seasons the river doesn’t become fishable until the second week of June. Even then, things are dicey. It’s a tailwater fishery, and the release from Murphy Dam is usually reliable enough that there is little fluctuation in the course of a normal day. No, the tricky things are the summer thunderstorms that can be remarkably isolated, and yet so violent they dirty up the river fast enough to eliminate all fishing.

  We’ve learned over the years to expect these, keep our tactics flexible. Even if the weather has been good down here I make a point of calling Ducret’s and asking about local conditions; all it takes is for whoever answers the phone to go over to the window and look out at Mohawk Stream, the tributary that runs right by the shop. It dirties up fast—but if it’s clear, the chances are the main river is clear as well.

  Even if we receive the green light, were still faced with a two-hour drive to get there—time for a lot to change. If the water is high but clear, it’s worth fishing, though there will be many places we can’t reach; if it’s dirty and brown, it’s still worth prospecting to see if we can’t get above the offending tributary, or, changing tactics, head downstream far and fast enough to beat the silt, get an hour or two of clarity before we have to quit.

  If worse comes to worst, there are the tributaries to fish. Sometimes we’ll drive up to the headwaters between the lakes, try there. If it looks like the entire river is up, we can bail out completely, head over to the Androscoggin, which is only thirty miles east—though this, of course, means raising the stakes for a long disappointing drive home if it turns out to be muddy there as well.