• RIGHT • Select Contents and Dreams of the Tying Desk 2024 Mixed Media 9”x12” That night began our years of fishing adventures together. James had officially taken me under his wing. One day in early summer, James called. The tiger muskie bite was on a little more than three hours north of where I stood in a downtown Livingston bookstore. After hanging up I checked my bank ac-count. The books would have to wait—there were toothy fish to catch. Putting the last $60 I had to my name in the gas tank, I loaded my truck hastily and rolled out of town. It was enough gas to get me there and maybe back home, but getting home was Sunday Chloe’s problem. Three and a half hours later I pulled into the campsite, set up camp in my truck next to his and ate dinner with him and Shep. The next morning the fish were out, but as any-one who has fished for tiger muskie knows, that doesn’t mean they were eating. We saw dozens of fish stacked in the bays, but the brutally bright sun and calm conditions on gin-clear water gave us little cover. Some fish would follow, even follow into the figure eight, but none would commit. We ended the day sunburnt and dehydrated, hearts full of promise from all the encounters. James encouraged me to stay another night, convinced we could get up at the crack of dawn, launch the boat, do a lap around the lake, hopefully have some luck with the fish, and I could hop in my truck and drive the three and half hours to work. Besides, he pointed out, I didn’t have to work at the fly shop until 9 a.m. the next day. I slept one more night in my truck and awoke be-fore the sun to help launch the boat—the infamous Hot Hen. We made our way around the lake in the growing light and used the early cloud cover to our advantage. Halfway through our drift, still half asleep, I stripped my fly back to the Hen and out of nowhere a giant, toothy mouth appeared. I came tight, my eyes widened, and the fish started fighting back. James’ voice lowered and slowed as he gave me direction, adjusting the trolling motor. The leader inched closer and closer to my bent rod tip—it just had to get through the first guide for it to count. I finally felt the perfection loop from line to leader slide through the guides, James held the net at the ready, the fish made one last run and, as a rookie, I put too much pressure on it. There was a snap, the line went limp, and everything was quiet. We stood there staring at the dark water. The world around us was nearly fully awake now. I sniffled, trying not to cry. 088 CHLOE NOSTRANT
The Flyfish Journal The Flyfish Journal 15.3: Page 88
