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THE LORD OF
RAINBOWS
Twenty years ago...before the
flotilla of guideboats and herds of
anglers gorged New Mexico’s
San Juan quality waters....a
great rainbow trout haunted a giant pool downstream from the famed Texas Hole.
To this day I have no
knowledge of his capture or proof
of his demise. He graces no one’s wall on a board....his bloated carcass
has not been found on any shore.
His death could have come during a final lunge for prey ....or as he
rested behind a boulder deep in
his lair. His funeral could have
been in the dramatic surge of a
5000 cubic feet per second
spring flushing of Navajo Dam.
His final resting place could
have been hundreds of miles downriver in the depths
of Glen Canyon Dam.
I’d like to think it
happened that way. It would have been a fitting burial tribute to the royalty
of his size, and to his zest for
survival.
To attain such mass took tremendous
appetite and cunning. Smaller fish
became his diet, fishermen his
nemesis. While their imitations could dupe him, they never outflanked
him. Escape was his expertise!
Let his encounter with me be his
eulogy...for I know of no others who have written about his lordship in the
river of catching.
That summery day he entered my
life, the dam was at low drainage...only 500 cubic feet per second. The
river’s clear sparkling waters were dancing the sun on its ripples. The air was calm while breezes enjoyed a noon siesta.
The lord’s haunt should have been in his dark 200 yard long sanctuary above a tailing chute. In there he could
cruise easily midst the indolent
current selecting his fare: adolescent
trout....undulating leeches.....moss worms.....emerging
insects....schools of minnows.
But that was not where he was.
This day he
forages the shallower, mildly turburlent chute. Lionlike he flexes his might, tames the current, and chases lesser
challengers who invade his habitat. He lurks where he pleases and devours at will. He needs no megalithic stronghold as
his province, for his presence proclaims his domain. No fish reigns over him,
no angler has yet to net him. He alone rules with ultimate authority in his
river.
My former son-in-law, Gary, is in the
chute at this moment... unaware of the lord’s presence.
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I am upstream,
fishing the long lazy hole
that is easily a hundred feet across. Because I noticed a few rising
trout, I affixed a Caddis Fly four feet above my already rigged San Juan Worm ( fancy name for a
piece of pink yarn tightly wrapped around a barbless hook). The worm was on line’s end ...a
sinker a foot above. I was using light spinning gear with 6#
test yellow mono line and my dry fly was 4 feet up on a 4# test clear dropper
leader.
I had taken a few small rainbows
on my trek down the long hole to the chute, but nothing in the 18-inch category
that was legal that year.
Gary on the other hand was ecstatic when
I approached.
“Hey...you gotta try this
chute...I’ve released three
keepers so far...it’s a hot spot!”
“No kiddin’?” I
exclaimed...anxious to try.
“Cast above me and out
there....you’re bound to get some!” he pointed excitedly.
The chute funnelled the 100 foot
wide pool to 50 feet and then to a tail of 25 feet. I flipped my
line to the far side, gently
splashing down. Repleat with
large sub-surface rocks, a vortex
of currents and riffles rolled my flies with the flow as I slowly retreived across the
confluence. When the end of the
retrieve was about four feet from
Gary’s backside I lifted the
line to recast.
Suddenly a massive eruption of
spray exploded at him!
“Hey...what are ya doing?”
he shouted as the crash and
splash jolted him. He thought I had tossed a large rock
behind him as a prank.
“It’s a giant....a
giant rainbow!” I sputtered.
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“No-waay!” he
challenged. Twisting around, his eyes traced my taut yellow line to the imposing dark
shape below. “ Holy-moly...you’re right...he’s a
lunker!”
The immense trout after engrossing the
upper caddis fly with his mighty vortex retreated to a loll in the clear water
depths just five feet outstream from Gary. He stayed steadfastly rooted near the edge of the current and seemed oblivious to my fly embedded in his jaw.
He was immovable, fixed and
frozen to us in the clarity of the scene.
As we assessed his enormity, Gary exclaimed : “He’s a yard long!”
“At least!!” I
echoed, “and a log....a freakin’ log on four pound test
line!”
“He’s gotta go 15 pounds...don’t
horse him! Keep your tension
light!” Gary admonished as
his hip boots took in water
when he inched for a closer view.
No amount of tugging could
antagonize a battle. He was boss and knew it. No four-pound test line would
marshall him. He owned the river...he was the master teacher...I was the
student. Granted I had hooked
him...but I hadn’t caught him!
The lord now gave survival lessons to all the
trout in view.
“Let frantic maneuvering not be your escape,” he
seemed to convey. “Desperate leaps and wild runs are self-defeating,
leading to exhaustion and capture . He had seen many gasping in the net, those
who had not learned from him, their mentor. Now onceagain they would see a
demonstration at escape...would they absorb his instruction? -47-
“Behold!” the great fish heralded by his
in-action. “Mind my
toleration of thehook stinging my
lip. Mark how I angle inward to
the current, conserving my
strength. Observe how I frustrate the angler by positioning myself deeply from his net. See how I brace myself against the tug
of his fragile line , which both
of us know will snap instantly at the flick of my tail should I so
desire.”
“I can’t believe he
was lying right behind me the whole time I’ve been here!”Gary
exclaimed. He was really begging for an explanation for his previous inattention . A real niche in his angling ability .
“He chased my flies across
the chute,” I replied, consolingly.
“But he wasn’t spooked by me standing here!” He
felt really down.
“He fixated on my fly....and besides,
nothing in this river could spook him!”
“He’s enormous...look at
him...just ignoring our
threat!” Gary stated.
“What threat?” I
replied. “He may be hooked...but he’s caught me! I can’t do a
thing unless he wants to. “
The lord lavished at our dilemma.
Excited forms
above the underwater legs were playing out a drama he’d witnessed many times
before. He smirked at their feeble
attempts to move him: their
thumping on the handle of the
fishing rod (as if that could jar him into fear);the splashing of the surface
with their nets (was he, the maker of greater splashes, fearful of these?); the
kicking of stones at him (they served merely to becloud his taunting ).
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“Enough of this play,” the
lord mused and turned his bulk into the current broadside.
“He’s going downstream,”
Gary shouted.
“Head him off in the shallows. Get
below him... hurry..hurry...hurry!”
Slipping and sliding along the
bank I ran in pursuit of the big rainbow, while
yards
of line screamed of my reel. I
never felt in less control.
“If fish could laugh,” I reflected, “this would be a belly
buster----the fish playing the angler!”
I ran the shore for forty feet then launched into the shallows downstream of him. He
must’ve taken pity on me for he halted prior reaching a deeper hole
below.
Was this an error on his
part? Would I be able to get close behind him and
hope he’d turn at my presence into the net?
The lord turned and faced the riffle’s current. It was refreshing and allowed him ease of
movement as it broke the power of
the stream into light bubbly turbulence. He parked and waited for the
angler...who was noisily
maneuvering into a position below.
“He’s right
there!” I screamed to Gary as
I splashed closer to the huge tail and back fin cutting wakes above the surge.
“Turn him into the
net!” Gary yelled back, “ you’ll never
tail-net him
!”
“I’ll never turn him
either...he’s too big!”
But I tried anyway and I was right.
The lord toyed with the angler. Each time the
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net
approached his tail he slowly moved from harms way....then rested
just a few feet upstream until the
angler caught up. The the effort
repeated itself and he moved
again. A third time...a
third move.
“He’s never gonna
turn,” I reiterated loudly
to Gary, as I continued this cat
and mouse game.
Before I could create another strategy,
the rainbow halted. I
peered into the foot deep water and discovered why. The sinker above the San Juan worm had slipped between a “V” of two rocks and jammed. The trout was
snugged tightly (I thought) and his forward progress halted (I hoped).
“Holy cow....the line’s
snagged on a rock,” I shouted.
The lord felt the strain on
his jaw and recognized the reason.
His great eye
viewed his rocky stream bed grasping the sinker tightly. Now it was just between him and
the four- pound test leader.
He’d not panic by turning to release himself , at risk of netting.
Rather, he’d use his
might to escape.
“ I’m going try a tail net ...his head is
snubbed...he can’t turn!”
As soon as I started I felt
it would be an excercise in futility.
But it was my only opportunity...if there was one. If the light leader held until I
could encompass the net over his
tail section, I could make a rapid
sweep and let his bulk collapse into it, snapping
the leader as I lifted . That’s what I
figured....that’s not what the rainbow figured!
Just as the net touched his
tail fin, he gave it a very slight twitch.
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I’ll remember that twitch
forever. It was ever so slight, yet
apropos for his might. With
not even the slightest jerk to his jaw
that twitch moved his giant body forward, severing the leader from my main line like a frail
hair. It was a slow-motion,
lack-lustre departure that made me realize how inadequate my effort hadbeen. This behemoth could’ve broken
from me anytime at his choosing. Instead, he gifted me an
encounter of his magnificence, that will never be forgotten.
The lord had
conquered.
“See how easily I
leave you!” he broadcasted
in unspoken thunderous disdain. “My realm is this river....you’ll
never prevail. You may tap my
greatness...but you’ll not capture my soul! For I am the lord of rainbows and I will never be claimed as your prize!”
I’ve played that
scene a hundred times in my mind since then. Could I have reacted better?
Should I have backed off allowing the snag to dislodge? Might I had Gary confront the
trout from upstream to turn him towards me? Why didn’t I tie the upper
fly with a heavier leader?
These hindsight options might have been
successful...or they might have just afforded the rainbow another way to humble me.
What has crossed my mind in reflection is the levity with which
I’ve spun this tale in the past. It
has been simple to relate: ”I hooked into a montrous trout that never battled , just acted like a
log on my line, and escaped due to a rock snagging my sinker.”
But, as I relate his story in print, he can now be
portrayed with the grandeur due a
trout of his worth.
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His encounter should never be reduced to the mundane . It must in the final
sense become a memorial to his guile, however spawned. He was the finned Houdini of escape and
to him alone belongs the conquest.
He deserves the accolades due a
champion....for they truly are a tribute
to his lordship!
+ + +
My son...almost the taxidermist
Seeking a trade that could be started in his teens, son Jeremy opted to stuff fish.
At $6.00 an inch a 20-inch trout could bring a 14-year old some good
change.
We made a deal with a local taxidermist to train him after school and
weekends...but it fell through when the trainer decided to move to Arkansas.
“But,” he comforted,” if you bring me a
nice trout...about 20-inches....before I leave, I’ll mount it for you as
a training model. The rest you can get from video tapes.”
We drove that weekend to the San Juan and I placed Jeremy at a hole
I’d hooked a 20-inch rainbow the month before.
“Just cast over there and let it drift,” I directed, after
I’d tied on my famous San Juan Worm/nymph.
I saw the cast, turned my back and was
jolted by his yell.
“I got one...Dad...a nice one!”
I couldn’t believe it. He had caught a
20-inch rainbow in less that 30 seconds. We wrapped the fish in a towel and
drove 200 miles back home. Our job was done...now it was up to the taxidermist.
And to this day, it is the only fish I have on my wall. Jeremy traded taxidermy
for Apple computors and makes a
lot more than $6.00 an inch!
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