I eased the truck into an opening in the pine trees. The
palate of gravel and pine needles crackled under the weight of the vehicle. The
break in the trees provided a vista rarely scene in the Piedmont of North Carolina.
We stepped out of the vehicle and began to assemble our gear. It was those
beautiful moments just before sunrise. The light was soft and the air cool. The
gentle rolling hills were back lit by the coming of dawn. Then suddenly a burst
of light pierced the meniscus between the sky and the Earth. We paused for a
moment and marveled at the scene. Sara turned to me and asked, “you ready?” I
gave the nod of confirmation.
We ambled down the old double track entering an arboreal
sanctum, momentarily stepping away from the responsibilities and realities that
await our return. Descending the grove of pines that sheltered the truck the
double track narrowed into a deciduous canopy. Oaks and Hickories and Maples
lined the soft path. You might forget that there ever was a road until you
arrive at the old low water bridge. We paused at the bridge and readied our
rods. We decided to fish downstream of the bridge today. The small rivulet made
a serpentine course as it passed under the bridge. Sycamores and river birches
made angular reaches across the flow, forming an alley with ample casting room
and deep pools sheltered from the encroaching sunlight. We stood along the
bridge surveying the water. Sara noted a large undercut bank along the river
left. A large sycamore clung for life as with each passing moment it’s
foundation was slowly being eroded.
With little hesitation Sara delivered a precise cast into
the eddy. The sinking soft hackle was raising a fish as an unseen current break
quickly pulled the belly of line into the main run. It looked as though this
was a missed opportunity, however concealed in the current a red breast
ambushed the fly before Sara had a chance to give up on this drift. She gracefully
played the fish before swinging it out of the current and onto a freestone
beach. Being that it was late May this red breasted bream was dressed in its
best spawning regalia and quite aggressive. It was a scenario that would
replicate itself throughout the day.
We hopped from pool to pool alternating turns as we caught
countless red breast and a few bass as well. The fishing was at its apex. We
were astounded by the beauty we encountered in such an unassuming place. We
flushed great blue herons and kingfishers as we progressed downstream. We also startled
a few northern water snakes when scrambling over boulders en route to the next
pool. And all morning there seemed to be an endless supply of the “next pool”. With
each fish brought to hand we could not help but comment on the beauty before
us. Prickly dorsal fins and dark green backs softened to shades of turquoise with
speckled bands of orange along the side. The orange specks converged along the
gill plate and belly in a crescendo of color that provides this pan fish’s
namesake. The red breast is nearly tropical in appearance. It would seem more
at home on a coral reef rather than in a Piedmont stream.
We had fished to a point where the trail holds close to the
bank for several hundred yards. Here we made our exit, ascending back to the
truck. We were returning to the constant low drum of busy lives, where careers
and graduate school, progress and ambition seem to be ever present. It was nice
to experience a respite for a few hours. As we walked back very few words were
exchanged. A line from Henry David Thoreau’s essay Walking coursed through my mind. “To enjoy a thing exclusively is
commonly to exclude yourself from the true enjoyment of it.” I felt a strong
sense of gratitude at the recitation of these words. How wonderful a morning it
had been.
