The demise of my green woolly bugger

The early morning sun pecked the tops of the lake waves, glistening and twinkling into Cam’s early morning eyes.  His insides raced with the adrenalin rush of trying to catch an elusive trout. His wife, Wendy complained about his babbling voice, piqued with anticipation.

The night before Cam had gone through the ritual of checking all the gear; fly rod, trout flies, reel and waders.  Part of the buzz of fishing was the build-up – the imagery of being a mere human in unison with nature. He was excited at the thought of getting back to the water.  Being in the still water with the solitude relaxed him.  The evening finished with the traditional dram of whiskey drunk in blessing of the coming event. 

Cam had selected his favourite wet fly; the green woolly bugger. The cold gentle wind stroking his unshaven face and wrestling the unkempt hair heightened his senses. The wind made for challenging casting, trying to get the fly out into the wind without fouling the line, required more push than normal. 

Dressed in fishing vest zipped up and woolly thermal socks worn for warmth Cam stepped into the lake in heavy waders.  The water around him cleansed the dirt of city life and consultancy stress away.  The water meant man and nature were one.  The euphoric feeling he got from being in the lake cut to the marrow of his bone.  Fishing brought out some primal instinct, giving Cam’s wife a more relaxed man than she saw during the rest of the year.

He pulled a good length of line off the reel and let it sink into the lake beside him. Then he settled into his first caste.  His graphite rod sliced through the wind with ease and out went his line.

Cam had his first fish of the season.  The line went taut and raced across the lake.  A magnificent hen rainbow jumped clear of the water.  He backed out of the lake to land the trout without a net. As Cam backed up he stumbled over some rocks.  It was a lovely fighting fish and five minutes later Cam had it on the beach. It was in very good condition.   After killing it he tied it to a stick in the water to keep it fresh.

Back into the water and excited at the possibility of reaching his limit, Cam cast again.  He couldn’t believe his luck – another strike.  His heart raced, pulsing with adrenaline. He felt a dead weight and reeled gently, careful not to break his rod or line.  Whatever he had, it was not coming ashore with ease.  Slowly he pulled on the line and wondered if he had a branch or dead fish.  Eventually he saw a large plastic bag.  Cam laughed at the new take on foul hooking....

Author: Bruce Howat (NZ)