Big One on the Big Eddy

Jarrod stood on the ledge, a mug of fresh tea cradled in his left hand, sun cracking the eastern sky. Tried to make sense of last evening. Slow and deliberately he pulled the steaming tea bag from the mug, twirled it once, and sent it sailing over the rapids, watching it drift with the roiling water. Watched it slip by the northern end of a smooth ledge then sweep on its way downriver. He and his Dad had fished this section of the Marigot since Jarrod was a teenager. Jarrod could point out each rock above water and remember the play of a trout to his net. Could remember as if it were yesterday the thrill of his first trip, twelve going on thirteen. Dad allowed he’d be old enough to handle himself on what was not only one of the best-producing stretches of this fast river, but the most dangerous. Self-inflating life vests were a must. This was where the big trout swam, where the Big One lived. He’d learned young, “chasing big game has its own set of challenges.”

Jarrod could recall the one slip he’d made. Reckless jump from one rock to one just under water’s surface. Footing swept immediately from under him. Lucky. Literally dug his fingernails into a rock as he swept by. Rod left for downstream without him. Dad said later, “Dues are paid by the careless.” Small price to pay.

Sun had had a good half-hour energy remaining when Dad had hooked the “Big One” he’d chased for the last few years. Chess game. Big One had clearly outsmarted him each year. Oh, a couple of times Dad hooked him. Once even getting it to the lip of his net. Had tried every fly in his collection to the point of lacing a small worm to bare hook. Big One always eluded him. Like he knew whose lure it was. Swim out from the bank and thrash its head following a fly. Nudge it. Never bite or swallow. Watch as a perfectly tied replica of that day’s hatch floated by. The two May Fly hatches they’d experienced when Big Eddy was alive with the big dancing trout made no difference. Big One kept his own agenda.

Dad was somewhere north of seventy-five. Jarrod could never quite keep track of family age. Same with his own four. His mother had passed few years back. 72. Clock stopped. He remembered that.

Dad was throwing a streamer fly. Still laying line on Big Eddy wherever he chose. Jarrod would occasionally pause in his own pursuits to watch him. Marvel at his perfection with barely concealed envy. Been hardly a ripple on the water last evening. Several fish jumping. They’d managed to bring three to net. The last for Jarrod was interrupted as he heard his Dad involuntarily shout. It was Big One. Jarrod watched as it went airborne and then again, and then again, as if it would fly if only this insect under its tongue would allow. Jump, tail walk, beat for the nearest overhanging ledge only to be coaxed away. Then another run. Big Eddy had gone quiet. Resident trout lay watching, waiting with Jarrod. Red/orange of sun’s last rays reflecting as Big One, star of the evening, threw water in myriad directions.

Dad, rod tip hovering close to reel, finally able to maneuver Big One toward net’s yawn. No chance. Not while energy remained in this elegant body. Runs were not as long. Not as fierce. Rolls. No jumps. Then back to the net. Slow. Careful. One more short run, propelled more by weight than effort. Two titans at the Roman Forum. One must win. Dad, bent low as knees allowed, slides net well below twilight darkening surface. Moving Big One closer by fractions he realizes net is too small. Carefully, more than carefully, pulls net away. Big One, tail moving just enough for slight headway, lays steady. Holds position. With grace, tenacity, experience, Dad pulls rod further from his side, leans out to impossible posture and positions net behind Big One’s tail. Net slides under tail as scene explodes. Dad lifts net, lifts pole, and with semblance shy of control, rolls as he falls back, he and Big One landing on the broken shale.

Campfire had settled to coals before Dad said more than a few words. Jarrod watched as he tried to massage the pain from his side. Wondered that Dad had kept Big One. Figured, knowing his father as he thought he did, he’d have released the fish. He had not. Dad had carried Big One to the cooler, slid it in on what little ice remained. Then, in as calm and studied manner as Jarrod had ever seen, his Dad began to separate the parts of his rig. Clipped the fly. Removed the reel. Separated the rod. Parts in hand walked the few steps to water’s edge. One by one, as if in reverence, he dropped each to the current. Stood there for what could have been an hour, then turned. Looked long at Jarrod as their eyes locked.

“It’s been a good run,” he said. “I’ve enjoyed these trips with you.”

• R E C I P E •

With the maple sugar run and deep snow in the memory category we can enjoy someone’s labor in the comfort of our kitchens. I have too great a love for “Maple Syrple” and often must use a little twisted logic to discover AJ’s latest hiding place. This recipe for Maple spice cookies comes from Sue Clark of Walls, Vermont, another syrup devotee.

1 c. veg. shortening
1 c. firm-packed brown sugar
1/2 c. granulated sugar 1/2 c. dark (Grade B) maple syrup
2 eggs
4 c. all-purpose flour
2 t + 1/4 t baking soda 2 t ground ginger
1 + 1/2 t ground cinnamon 1/4 t salt
Granulated sugar per instructions

Preheat oven 350 deg. Grease baking sheet. Cream shortening, brown and granulated sugars until fluffy. Combine flour, baking soda, ginger, cinnamon and salt. Add to shortening mix a little at a time until well blended. Dough will be sticky. Sprinkle granulated sugar onto wax paper. Roll into balls. Place balls on baking sheet about 2" apart. Bake for 12-13 min. until golden brown and center is set. Do not overbake. Let cool on baking sheet for 1 min. Transfer to rack for further cooling. No more than two may be consumed by baker before offering to others.

Fair Winds and Good Roads
– Lee Wilbur