CUTBANK BELOW TEN HOURS OF NOTHING the softening horizon, and it hurts. Soon the sun will be up and all will be seen. After 10 hours of noth-ing, I tied on a streamer and finally connected with a haughty brown pushing 20 inches. Its lean summer body fought hard and flirted with my backing, but I walked with it to keep the side pressure on before it could take any more line. In the net we exchanged a few looks, none of which landed on my body, which I appreciated. At the sight of another angler, I packed up and left. I didn’t look at him as we passed but he asked how long I’d been out, and he thought I was messing with him when I told him. When I got back to my car it was dead, which felt about right for a mousing mission. I needed a jump and my phone had no reception, so I walked toward town. Near the outskirts I saw a rusted-out pickup truck idling in the parking lot of a smoke shop. The silhouette of the person inside was dark and ambiguous. I kept walking. Surely Dante forgot about the Flats of Despair when depicting the Nine Circles of Hell. On the West Branch of the Delaware, the trout grow large, eat with abandon and have been known to push aside even the best drifts and mayfly imitations to get to the real thing. Abundant micro-currents, gin-clear water and thick fog are among the other hazards one must overcome. It’s said that if you listen closely, you can hear the cries of tormented anglers echoing down the stream. Photo: Joe Janiak I set up camp on a familiar gravel bar and strung my rod as far away from the water as possible, then crept through the dark to the edge of the bar. A fish blew up my mouse on the first cast but missed. The second cast brought the same result, though maybe I’d missed that time. Then 10 hours of nothing. I paced the shoreline, took smoke breaks and tried to sleep to no avail. It was miserable, but at least I was alone. My comfort as a trans person flyfishing has become a solitary, pitch-black gravel bar and no fish landed. Most people are nice enough, but I’m increasingly hesitant to mix it up at the bar by Shehawken or linger too long in any fly shop. Let’s be honest: Hearing an anti-LGBTQ sentiment among a group of men isn’t ex-actly uncommon. Yet I remain a trout bum. Every month of the year, every day of the week. Nothing gets me more excited than seeing a large pair of wet pectoral fins. There’s always a moment at first light, when the silhouette of the mountains presses darkly against
The Flyfish Journal Volume 13, Issue 2: Page 30
