Fishin' in the Dark   

The scene is a small pond nestled 20 yards before a long tree line with an unusually large expanse of recently mowed grass all around the rest of it. Being the steadfast fishing women that we are, it was dusk when we finally took a break to eat beneath the pretty little tree next to “No-name Pond”. The last few minutes before our break I had been fishing a large green and yellow popper equipped with a moss-guard. Just when I had concluded that the contraption was only scaring the fish, the “one more cast”  landed a greedy bass.

The others packed up to leave while I decided to stay and try for one of the “big bass” the owner of the pond said was in there. We had permission to take what we caught, and I had in mind delivering a meal of fresh bass to Della, the dear woman who had helped us take care of my son Ben when he was young. Della could never get it that I spent so much time fishing but never brought any home with me. I’d been put on task of bringing her fish for many years.

Before the others had even left the parking area, I caught my “bubba”. I so much wanted to land this fish, and I did. Encouraged, I decide to continue using the giant popper to find brother of bubba. By the time I have covered the entire area of the pond with no luck, I’m once again convinced that I’ve managed to put down every living thing in the pond, but now it’s too late to change to a different fly as it’s become totally dark.

It has also changed. I feel perfectly safe and delighted to be out alone in this beautiful spot. I am now “seeing” from memory. I pause to take in the smell of due forming, the sound of nighttime summer insects. The gentle breeze has returned, blowing the mosquitoes to their hiding places and the stars, would you just look at those stars! 

My cell phone rings from my pants pocket. The caller is the man I have agreed to take on as an apprentice in my workshop, but I have not yet met. He is Chinese, new to the U.S. with limited ability using English. He lives in Manhattan and he intends to commute a few days each week. I am so enamored of my surroundings, I exuberantly tell him he will never guess where I am. I try to explain the magic of the half-moon light rising over the pond and about the star-studded night, of “bubba” landed and brother “bubba” yet waiting. I know he thinks I’m crazy, but I can’t contain my enthusiasm. Second thoughts about his new teacher or not, I hope he shows up on Thursday as planned. 

The intriguing thing about the rest of the evening, was devising ways of locating and de-mossing my line by feel, gauging my casts by sound and remembering where not to step in order to avoid slipping into the wood chuck holes along the banks. Brother “bubba” still waits, maybe to grow even bigger for another season, and the memory of fishing in the dark will warm me through another winter.

-Judith Palmer-