The Master of the Evening Waters
by Warren Masten
It was the best of Greek tragedies. Only the masks were missing. And Zeus
only knows how some heavy, heart felt railing and gnashing of teeth can draw
a crowd. That’s what I was doing after spending an almost fruitless day
fishing one of my favorite reaches on the Madison River. The stretch is just
above the Reynolds Pass Bridge. I can usually play that section like a fine
lyre, but not today, my last day of vacation. I had tried everything in my
bag of tricks, but to no avail. It appeared to be filled with the errant
crew from Pandora's Box. So, I was grumbling. I found that everyone else in
the parking area was grumbling also. That made me feel better. At least I
wasn’t along, I was part of the chorus.
Oh, you should have heard us mutter and curse. Sophocles would have wept!
Blame was dumped on everything from the weather (which was just fine), to the
position one holds one’s mouth while angling. I knew, I would never again
wear the particular (unlucky) chapeau which was now perched upon my pate.
Fly fishermen are a peculiar lot, but not so different that we do not display
typical human behavior.
As we moaned and groaned our way through the verses of this particular
tragedy, a fellow approached and had the gall to interrupted the fun we were
having by telling us we should take a gander at the guy that was presently
working the river. He said, the angler was really tearing ’em up.
En masse, the miseries left the parking lot in a dusty crowd and went out onto
the bridge. There was only a teen aged boy watching the angler when we
arrived. I had seen him earlier in the day working some pocket water below
the bridge. I looked out to where he was focused and could just make out the
angler approaching a slick below a large rock about two hundred yards
upstream on the other side of the river.
The guy was incredible. Every cast was a piece of art and the stretch he was
working had been hammered by most of us on the bridge, all day long...with
little or no success. There were at least fifteen of us watching the expert,
for that is what he would have to be. Perhaps he was a guide who was taking
a day off to show the rest of us lackeys how it was really done.
To see a truly fine fly fisher ply his passion is a thing of beauty. It was
obvious this fellow had put a good amount of study into the art of
reading water. His imitations were matching the particular insect hatch
beautifully if the amount of rises he was getting was any indication.
I and my band of miseries stood spellbound on the bridge, woven into a web of
calm by the rhythmic fanning of that distant wand as it worked the fading
light. We were humbled by the master of the evening water.
All the time we were there, the teenager, standing apart from us watched
also. His watching was of a different sort, however, and I assumed he was
probably the son or the brother of the artist at work. I think he was
basking in the reflected glory we were extolling upon the man. He would look
over and grin the biggest grin when we would make some exalting comment like,
“Now, there is a man who really knows what he’s doing!”
I was just about to go over and ask him if he knew the fellow out there when
he started walking away to the other end of the bridge. The angler had just
started up the far bank towards the parking area on that side and was looking
this way and that for something. The boy waved. The angler saw him and gave
him the come on over wave. The kid started to jog and shouted, “Be right
there, Mom.”
Happy Mom’s Day to you!
