[SleepingDragon]: 268.One Thanksgiving- The Day I Caught The Rainbow

ONE THANKSGIVING- THE DAY I CAUGHT THE RAINBOW
©2003 Eugene N. Erno
(A true story)

It was a tad nip that morning but the trout had been running strong that fall, so I rose early and headed down across the railroad tracks. I made my way through the tall, season-browned grass of Coon's pasture, choosing not to fish off the old single lane bridge that shared the same name. The bridge was a good place to catch the small trout that were planted by the area's hatcheries once a year. They would feed voraciously on almost anything you threw at them. Worms, a Mepp's spinner, cheap bread rolled into doughy balls, even whole kernel corn. Upstream further, if one was silent enough, could be found the native hatched rainbow trout. Bolder in color than their mass produced kindred, they lived year round in the river, making their homes in dark holes along the banks in parts of the river where people seldom went. Leery of any unfamiliar sound or movement, they would be much harder to catch.

I turned aside before the bridge and pushed my way through the nearby thickets of dried blackberry bushes. A new tear in my green fishing vest and a bleeding scratch across the back of one hand the price of passage. I made my way past the crumpled foundation of some unknown structure that had existed decades ago, it's true purpose remembered now only by old-timers who on any other day would be sipping coffee and eating fried eggs at one of the local restaurants. Ambling over a small rise and back down again, I pushed my way through a few yards of cat tails emerging breathlessly on the bank of the river.

I stood quietly on the downstream end of the small, muddy patch of earth amidst the cattails, being careful that my shadow did not fall over the water where the hole was, just off the bank. I lit a Marlboro red, and silently took in the beauty of the scene around me. I was fortunate to have such a place to come to. Only a mile east of town, this place appeared as unused as it probably had a century ago. The only sounds were those of nature. The rush of an occasional crisp wind, the quiet gurgling of the river as it moved past, the rustle of muskrats scurrying out of sight nearby. If I caught no fish this morning, I was still thankful for the beauty of this place. It was worth the walk simply to be here.

I slipped a bag of salmon spawn tied in a piece of Mom's old pantyhose onto a number six hook, a single splitshot sinker on the line two feet above it. I flipped the bait upstream in a short, quick, underhand cast, aiming for a place in the current where the water bubbled noisily over an unseen log on the bottom of the river, camouflaging the sound of it's landing.

Finished with my cigarette, I butted it out on the bottom of my shoe and stuck the dirty filter in one pocket. I would not violate the sanctity of this place, even with such a small piece of litter. I would take only two or three of the small trout if they were to be had. Enough to eat only. To do otherwise would be selfish. Wasteful. Glutinous.

My hand not yet out of my pocket I felt a sharp tug on the line, followed by a quick series of more sharp tugs, and then the line began to pull strongly toward the middle of the river. Whatever it was, it was not a small trout, and it had hooked itself. There was not even any need to set the hook.

In a moment it sprang from the river in a spray of water, silvery-white and red with black-green along the back, then crashed back down into the river with a tremendous splash. In the surrounding quiet, it seemed as if the sound must surely have been heard all the way to town. It jumped again, and again. My heart leapt inside my chest with excitement and my pulse quickened noticeably. I had never seen a trout so large in this river.

I don't know how long I fought the fish. It was some years ago. The next thing I recall is how beautiful it looked in the water as I pulled it near the bank, it's gills reflecting all of the colors of the rainbow and refracting light through the water in gold, silver and white. It was tired now. Having no net with me, I kneeled down on the muddy soil and flipped it up onto the shore, one hand under its soft white belly.

I stood there a moment looking down at the glorious creature, wondering if perhaps I should release it. "No", the answer came to my mind. "It is a gift and should be taken in gratitude."

I did not make a second cast that morning. I picked the fish up by the gills, turned to the river and gave a quiet "Thank You", then pushed my way through the cattails and headed toward home.

End