Witching Hour

It's seven o'clock on a late summer evening and all's fairly quiet. The commuter traffic out on the road has gone, the sheep and horses have been put away, fed and watered, and now the creek meadow and the upper reaches are all mine. This is really my favorite time of day to fish because the brightest light has gone, the air's beginning to cool, and I know the trout will soon begin stirring from their various daytime lies. The mayfly hatches are mostly gone and there aren't many caddis about, but terrestrials remain active and probably will be so until well into autumn. Even if the land insects weren't still fairly abundant, the stream always harbors nymphs. There are crayfish here, too, although many of those I've seen have been too large for the average trout living here to manage to eat. They probably can get the smaller crayfish and very likely do eat them. I can be reasonably sure about that because once I used a crayfish imitation and managed to pick up a trout with it.

In a little over an hour it will be full dark, so it's time to hurry over to the stream and start fishing. Arriving at precisely the right time for good fishing involves a little calculating: get here too early and there's nothing happening; come too late and it's then too dark to wade among the rocks without a lot of stumbling around. Even in a stream I know as well as this one, the picture alters dramatically with darkness and I've broken all the bones I care to break in this lifetime. There's also the matter of being able to see what I'm doing in order to remove a fly gently and safely from a trout's mouth when releasing the fish. But in the short time available to engage in it, for me there's nothing like fishing at eventide.

It's been some time since I tried the upper portion of the creek, so I walk up to The Run. That area's a bit different now, because the bank immediately below that piece of water has been reinforced with rocks to prevent further erosion of the soil. That makes for a stretch of current that's not only a good bit deeper but a lot swifter, and I lack the daring to venture into it. I therefore stick to the bank, fighting my way through the barberry and multiflora rose bushes as I approach the waterside. When at last I get near the edge of the stream, I stand and simply watch.

There! A rise-form appears, so there's a fish feeding. It might be a chub or a small suckerfish, but somehow I don't believe it's not a trout. What can it be taking? Did it suck in a floating beetle or ant? Whatever it was, it didn't make a lot of fuss and a grasshopper that fell into the stream would cause a commotion, but nothing of the sort happened. I decide to bet on a beetle imitation and dig one from the fly box, attaching it to the leader. That takes a little doing because the light's beginning to fade and the fly is a size 16. In order to see the hook's eye, I have to hold the fly up to the sky so as to be able to aim the tip of the leader properly. At last the beetle's on and I'm set to cast.

The first rise is followed by another, then by two more. I decide to start with the riser closest to where I'm standing and drop the fly onto the surface, leaving enough slack in the fly line to ensure at least some drag-free drift time. When the beetle reaches what seems to be the "ball-park" the trout rises again—next to the fly. I want very much to pick it up and cast again but know I'll have to wait and let the current carry the fly, leader and line out of the trout's immediate range of vision or I'll put it down. It's hard for me to be patient when fish are obviously feeding, but to try to hurry things means I'll probably scare everything in the pool and catch nothing.

As the light continues to dim the water reveals more activity. There are trout rising all over the place, seeming almost to try to shove each other out of the way as they feed on whatever it is they're taking. Between the approaching dusk and the size of the trout's prey, I can't be sure of what that may be, but I stick with the beetle and send it out to them once more, keeping my eyes fixed on the end of the fly line. The line stops moving. It's a very subtle take, if that's indeed what it is, but I take no chances and strike. The trout, which is very small, leaps out of the water and seems almost to fly closer to the bank. He's probably not longer than six inches, but he fights hard enough to put a bend in the rod.

As quickly as I can, I draw him over to where it's possible to reach and release him. Yes, he is a little one and he has the beetle in the corner of his mouth. I know that using the forceps will make it easier to get hold of the fly and take it out, so I hold him in the quiet current near the stream's edge while opening the tool. I tuck the rod under my arm, reach down and take the trout by his lower lip with my rod hand, putting the forceps on the hook's bend. Just before removing the fly from my quarry's mouth I take a moment to admire him. He's lovely—dark golden-brown, brilliantly yellow just above his snow-white belly. All over his sides are black spots, interspersed with red ones, and his fins and tail have taken on the red-spotted deep amber of the stream-bred fish. After a very short time spent in enjoying his beauty, I slide the fly carefully from his mouth and send him on his way.

When he's gone I decide to stay for just another short while. It's going to be dark soon and I know I'd do well to leave. But the magic of the evening has caught me and despite my better judgment I cast again above where a rise-ring has appeared. There's no take and I know that the trout has either ignored the fly or I've misjudged the fish's location altogether. In the short time it took to get the cast off it's become even darker and I'd really be wise to leave. "One more cast," I tell myself, "just one more." Fortunately, since there aren't enough insects in the air to attract the bats, there's no danger of my snagging one of them or of having the "winged mouse" bounce off the tip of the rod. I peer hard at the stream's surface and am barely able to discern a large rise-ring and cast above and to one side of it.

At first there's nothing, but then there's a splash marked by a whiteness on the surface and a hard tug on the beetle. I've got him! As the trout surges against the pressure of the rod, I realize that releasing it isn't going to be easy because now I can scarcely see what I'm doing. The fish fights hard, thrashing about in the water, darting this way and that in the effort to escape. It's then that I begin to wonder exactly how I intend releasing him when he's ready to stop struggling. I don't get the chance to consider the problem for long because there's one last hard pull and then nothing. The arc's gone from the rod, there's no more splashing, and I wonder just what's happened.

It finally occurs to me that on the key-ring in my vest pocket is a small light. I dig into the pocket, get hold of the ring and turn on the light, shining it around. The mystery is solved because I can see that I'm near a partly submerged fallen tree. My trout very probably made for the tree, wrapping the leader around a protruding branch and freeing itself by snapping the fine tippet. I'm sorry he's gone, even though I'd have released him anyway. It would have been gratifying to see him, to know whether his size was commensurate with the fight he gave me, but he didn't wait around once he knew he was loose.

My last excuse for hanging around is gone because it's far too dark to tie on another fly. I reel in the fly line and decide to check the leader. When I hold it up to the flashlight's beam and examine it, I'm relieved to find that most of the tippet is still there. That means the trout seems to have broken off the fly immediately above the knot. Since the fly's a small one and is barbless, he'll no doubt be able to rub it out without difficulty. He also won't need to contend with a long piece of leader that could trap him later. Maybe we'll meet again, if I'm lucky, so on that thought I decide to leave.

Once the fly line is back on the reel, I make my way back to the car, keeping the beam of the light on the path and walking with care. It doesn't take long to reach the car, put the rod and reel back into their cases and take off my gear. When all that has been done, I take time to look up at the sky. It's a clear night, there are what look like a million stars overhead and before long the moon will rise. Just before I get into the car I walk over to the bridge and look down at the stream. The stars shine on the water, their reflections broken up by the constant making of rise-rings. The trout are truly "on the feed" now, and if it were just a bit lighter I might give in to the temptation to stay. But discretion overcomes that wish and I turn back, knowing that the stream will be there next time I come out. Fishing in the near-dusk has its own very special sort of magic, enough to cause me to think of that short time before dark as "the witching hour." For me it is, because the experience of being out on the stream and finding it so hard to leave is close indeed to being under a spell, completely bewitched.

--Margaret B. Clarke--