Last Cast

 

 

 

Last Cast
Don Denney
5-29-2012

This is not a true story. It is pretty much a total fabrication, but I believe it is a story worth telling.

Some time long ago an organization called North Georgia Trout Online (otherwise known as NGTO) was founded. I'm thinking it was about the same time hiwassee.net started (1998), because I remember getting an email soliciting photos from the Hiwassee for use on the site. It has a forum, one of the best on the web in my opinion.

Somewhere lost in their archives (I haven't been able to search and find it) is a post with a title something like "last cast". As I recall the question was, "If you could choose the time and place and circumstances of your last cast, what would they be?"

The last cast is an institution in flyfishing for trout. There comes a time when you have to start thinking about calling it a day. I prefer to end on a positive note, like getting a limit or catching some particularly challenging fish. Other times I'm approaching some goal, and an event such as breaking off a fly will lead me to decide that is a good time to quit, rather than trying to tie another fly on with dark approaching, gets harder as I get older. I still get to leave smiling, much better than flailing away until absolutely forced to give up in defeat.

There were a lot of responses, many dealing with some exotic location and some monumental fish. I crafted a post, keeping in mind that as I understood it the question was not about the last cast on some trip, it was about the last cast on this earth.

It was a dark and stormy night... No, wait, that's another story!! It was a bright and sunny day, early June, morning, at Little Rock Island, 2 turbines. That instant in time would have been preceded by traditions that are part of a fishing trip, getting up early, the checks to try to avoid forgetting anything, maybe a biscuit and coffee from Hardee's, consumed while driving, watching the sunrise and mist, the rigging up, and the long hike up the tracks, with all the sites and sounds and sensations that are part of that. Seeing plants that I don't recognize, and making a mental note to try to identify them. The taste and smell of a pipe which I hope serves as bear repellent, the feel of a gentle breeze, the cold water when I wade in wet.

And the memories, of fish and events and places and times, and friends and family I have fished with over the years. This is not all about catching fish.

In my visualization, I wade into casting position at a promising looking run where I have caught good fish before. The fly I tie on is a big isonychia nymph, with a little weight wrapped around the tippet loop. When all that is ready I take the time to load and light a pipe. My rod and my pipe, they comfort me.

I strip out some line, make a few false casts and lay the fly down at the seam between current and eddy at the head of the run. I mend upstream to let the fly sink, and hold the rod high to control the drift.

The end of the line pauses, and I raise the rod. A brown trout rolls right in front of me, the likes of which I have never seen before. I could see the fly hung in his mouth. My knees went weak. He was the king of the river, the king of all rivers. He went straight for the bottom, the huge leathery tail waving in the air. He rubbed the hook loose in the gravel, splashed spray on me, and he was gone. He had been on just long enough so I could count him as lost, not missed.

I stood there for a while absorbing what had happened. It would not have been right for me to land that fish. He was a far, far better fish than I am a man. I had always known he was there, and I had finally seen him. That was enough. He was evidence that the river had realized its potential. It's a beautiful river, and I left it smiling.