Words: Noah Davis 2016-12-16 14:36:26
Knowing my love for flyfishing, Coach followed me up and down the court as I ran wind sprints, yelling, “This is my trout fishing, Davis! This is my trout fishing, dammit!” To pay for college, I put an orange ball through an iron hoop. At 6 feet 6 inches tall and 230 pounds, the fact I can hit from beyond 20 feet gives me an advantage on the court—it also helps with crossing rivers, spotting fish and casting. By the time the first games have passed and the snow has fallen, flyfishing is nothing more than screen-saver memories of brook trout rising in plunge pools. During the final days of fall, I try to steal a few hours on mountain streams, attempting to slow the passage of time, seeking the last fish that’s willing to nail a dry fly. Which trout will my fingers remember in February? Whose muscled sides will remain imprinted on my palm until they’re washed away by the first brookie of spring? This past October, before the spawn began, I was lucky enough to make it home on a sunny day, basketball practice uncharacteristically canceled. Driving east through Pennslyvania’s Laurel Highlands, I imagined my teammates studying for midterms or in the gym taking extra shots. The guilt I felt was lost in the stream’s third pool where a seven-inch brook trout carried it to the stony bottom. As I walked up the cobble, I was careful placing my foot. Turning an ankle is bad news for a basketball player and I doubted my coach would forgive me for wading a mountain stream on an off day. During my freshman year I made the mistake of smiling at a teammate’s whispered joke while Coach shouted about an errant pass. Knowing my love for flyfishing, Coach followed me up and down the court as I ran wind sprints yelling, “This is my trout fishing, Davis! This is my trout fishing, dammit!” I don’t believe Coach will ever see me cast a fly rod, but he tells me the fluidity of my jumper is beautiful. A few days after my dressing-down, I confessed to him that a well-placed fly is reminiscent of a ball falling cleanly through the net. He looked at me blankly, then said I needed to grab more rebounds. My point guard doesn’t understand why I have more pictures of trout than of my girlfriend. He says its weird that I tie flies after practice. I said it’s like a crossover or a pass thrown by a defender’s ear, that a good drift feels the same as a backdoor cut leading to a dunk. He shook his head. Because of the late-afternoon glare, I didn’t see the next fish take my royal Wulff. As I retrieved my line to cast, the trout began to fight, diving for the submerged moosewood. At 10 inches, the tail draped onto my wrist, red belly full of caddis. Standing in the river I questioned if I could survive the winter months without the faint, yellow spinnings along this fish’s flank—time separated from beauty. With the light of evening seeping down the hollow, I walked the logging road back. At the truck my mind drifted forward to gymnasiums and the cramped bus rides. I felt cold water drying on my hand. It reminded me of snow. Noah Davis is the treasurer of the Seton Hill University English Club. He is also a senior forward and captain of the men’s basketball team.
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Buckets
https://digital.theflyfishjournal.com/articles/buckets