It was hard to hear through the pounding in his ears.
His heart raced with the sound of his boots hitting the ground. Hard rain covered the sound, or it would, initially. The sentry hadn’t heard him yet. The heavy blade in his fist was pointed up for the one and only thrust he thought he would get.
He had moved in as quietly as he could; crossing through the elephant grass, staying low; keeping as close to shadows as he could, then swinging towards the light, careful not to let it rob him of his night vision.
His movements finally caught the guard’s attention. By then he was on him, stiff-arming with his left arm to the throat while thrusting his right upward, into the sentry’s chest. Hot blood splashed onto his fist as he twisted. While it took only a moment, it felt like eternity. The grunt from the guard had sounded loud and he was terrified that someone would investigate. Fire light reflected on the guard’s face. The enemy was little more than a teenager… scared and wide-eyed, with surprise and pain frozen in his eyes. He had never had to kill this close before. He had to force himself from staring into the dead man’s eyes. Despite his hardened experience this hurt him.
The rain had eased some as he wiped the knife on the grass and sheathed it. A quick search produced some rice and dried fish. He found a pistol. A quick check of the magazine found it half loaded. Probably more weight and trouble than it was worth, assuming it worked. He took the guards AK and some spare clips, though a firefight was the last thing he would want while moving down into the valley. Working quickly, he finished checking the body and pulled it into the nearby brush. After attending to the drag marks he stuffed what he could into his rucksack and picking up the rifle made his way southeast, cursing under his breath as the heavy rain stung him.
Leaving bodies behind would just confirm his presence and direction of travel. But, he had been cornered by two NVA groups converging on his lie. He was suspected, but not discovered. As a civilian illegal in Cambodia, he would not survive capture. It was close to sunrise; they knew where he was headed and his trail was easy to follow. But this move may buy him a few hours…maybe. They would not immediately guess he was running through one of their own camps.
He had to be miles away in a few hours and the jungle was slow going in the daytime, let alone at night. If he was lucky, he could evade 'til daybreak and make it across the paddies in the valley below by evening. A river was not far from there with the chance for escape. If he could get to the river he’d be okay; he’d be safe.
Alex applied a few more horsepower and concentrated on making better time through the winding curves in the mountain pass. It was early morning and the sky to the east was visibly brighter. The summers of Oregon give the hard core fly-fisher over 16 hours of fishing time, and with his destination still hours away he was grateful.
After stopping for breakfast in Sisters, he arrived a couple hours past sun-up, relieved to get to the campground. He was road weary from sitting so long, listening to classic blues tunes that brought back too many old memories. Renewed feelings of guilt and anxiety from the previous week’s events just added to his weariness. But, on arriving at his destination, the river view and desert fragrances lightened his mood.
As his truck crawled into Dry Creek he looked for the spot close to the river that was his favorite. It sat near a small creek that fed the Deschutes and provided water for cooking and an occasional bath. He was in luck - his spot was empty as he pulled in. Getting out, he stretched the kinks from his legs and turned with a slight limp to the business of camp.
The tent and kitchen were going be home for a few days, and Alex liked coming back to a finished camp. Setting up in bad weather; tired and hot from a long walk on the river was not a good start for any picnic. Weather could change fast out here and central Oregon weather can be spectacularly inconvenient at times. After setting up the tent he put fresh coffee on the stove to brew.
Alex took camp comfort seriously. Producing an espresso pot he created a good quantity of hot, syrupy brew that he liberally sugared. That and a few crackers with peanut butter were enjoyed in the shade of a nearby tree. He relaxed and enjoyed the morning’s accomplishments before beating crumbs from his lap and rifling through his travel bag.
Pulling out a small bottle of scotch, he set it aside in favor of waders, boots and vest. After pulling them on he assembled his fly rod and checked the line. Having worked previous evenings tying flies, he selected a few, stored them in a fly box then secured them in a pocket of his vest. Mostly, they consisted of a variety of small soft-hackles and larger nymphs; a few caddis dries. After locking the truck he set out.
The stretch of water he would walk covered about 7 miles along the river. A road paralleling it was the usual means of access and straighter than the river. Motorized vehicles weren’t allowed. While a good walk, it required plenty of water and he was already grateful for the camelback pack under his vest. He had yet to string his line…it was his rule to leave it until he had surveyed the water.
A mile or so downriver Alex begins to work the weeds and tree shade for some action. The bright sun has trout deep or close to the banks, so dapping under trees or working the back eddies are often productive methods. Caddis is the main bug today. Using his own concoction of Henryville Special with a short dropper, he makes short casts along the banks looking for loitering trout. Experience has shown that long casts are useful, sometimes, but Alex found that most of his fish were caught with 10 to 20 feet of line. His 5 wt. was loaded with 6 wt. weight-forward line to load the rod a little faster. Crystal clear water demanded long leaders and fine tippet. Crouched under the low branches of a tree Alex dispatched the fly using a “bow and arrow” cast while keeping an eye out for poison oak and rattlesnakes.
Patiently working upstream under the trees he places a fly in some rough water just under the shade and it explodes with the announcement of a large trout. Struggling to keep his footing he heads down stream behind the singing reel.
While trying to improve his stance in the water the line goes slack a bit. Stripping line in as fast as he can, he discovers the trout has slipped the hook.
“Well, well”, he chuckles to himself, “that got the blood pumping.”
A large back eddy a little farther up stream makes him pause. After a bit of watching, he notices rolling trout where the river current meets the top of the eddy. It’s foamy and some rainbows are working the micro eddies in the boundaries between the currents. Working his way over some rocks to the water’s edge, he casts about 30 feet upstream into the fast seam and begins stripping back rapidly while looking for the take. He’s not disappointed. A roll of water envelops the fly and he resists the urge to strike instantly. The thought passes... in time to set the hook. A fat red side clears the water in a high cartwheel that is the hallmark of their kind.
Fast water to his left tempts the trout and Alex tries hard to move it to softer water near the bank. All his efforts go unrewarded as the trout takes line and makes his move to faster current down stream. Alex groans as he struggles to keep his footing while moving to keep up. Overhanging trees and slick river rock make the going difficult as he tries to follow without losing the game. The trout holds for a while in fast current and Alex is stuck for the moment trying to figure out what to do. With one hand on the rod and another on an overhanging tree limb, he works his way down, hoping the trout doesn’t make any further runs. The line goes slack, and being one-handed at the moment he can do little but throw the slack line farther downstream ahead of the trout. Sensing the pull of the line downstream the trout reverses course.
Freeing up his other hand he begins stripping in line, taking up slack. Mindful of his light tippet, he slowly works the rainbow to the softer water before him. His head is up and the net has him before he bolts.
The fly pops from the corner of the “red side’s” jaw. His weight has a satisfying feel and Alex considers the idea of fish for supper. But he’s too big and grand, so Alex releases him. The moment is done and he savors the moment, then becomes startled into overwhelming melancholy. He retires to the shade and lies down to allow the moment to pass. His right hand begins shaking and he is dazzled with the misery of flashing memories and overwhelming panic.
Long after the shaking had passed, he lay under the low bush and observed the fine veins of backlit leaves from the shadows. To fishermen floating or walking by, he was having a leisurely nap. The flashbacks were infrequent but still plagued him. Mostly triggered by stress, good and bad, the severity of each episode never seemed to wane and Alex was tired of the burden of anxiety and sadness it left upon its departure. He wiped tears from his face as he lay there studying the leaves' delicate shape. After 15 minutes or so he began to feel better and decided to walk it off. After another half hour of vigorous walking in the sun he returned to stalk trout.
Spending the rest of the day working banks and back eddies good trout are taken; good ones lost. A long sip from the camelback empties it and signals time to return to camp. The sun is setting when he arrives and his back and shoulders ache. He’s grateful the camp is already set up. After getting out of his waders he places them on the tent to dry and enjoys the luxury of moving around in light, slightly damp clothing. It cools him down in the waning heat, but it’ll be much cooler soon. Pulling out a wool blanket and fleece jacket, he puts them in the bed of the pickup. After slaking his thirst from a water bottle he pours some into the coffee pot, throws in some grounds and then assembles it.
“Hmm… chili for dinner sounds good”, he thinks.
A small fire soon materializes and a pan of chili with extra peppers and chunks of beef jerky are working on the grill. With that, a bag of corn chips and coffee mug, he settles down to a late dinner.
“Not bad” he thinks, sweating from the chili. He eats at a leisurely pace then, finishes up, washes the dishes and cleans himself up a little.
By now the sun is gone. It gets cold quickly in the canyon. Around eleven, a full canopy of stars are present overhead. The bottle of single malt sits by him while he cradles a small measure of it in a glass. A cigar follows. Finally he goes to the cab of the truck and pulls out a pair of binoculars. Careful to not to spill his drink, he makes his way onto the bed of the truck and lies there pointing the binoculars at the sky. Lying there on the blanket, puffing on the cigar, the stars are his feature attraction for the evening. Watching carefully, there are satellites interspersed with meteors and planets. Alex has always had a fascination with the sky. He has the best binoculars he can afford. The clear desert air adds breathtaking clarity to his views of the moon. Stars, and even galaxies, swim in view as his night vision improves.
Putting the binoculars down he takes take another pull of scotch. The cigar leaves a nutty leather taste in its wake. As he spits some tobacco out of his mouth the memory of the previous day comes to sit like aggravation on his good time.
Alex was a little proud of how he had taken the news yesterday. That is, he didn’t fall apart, stammer or burst out in childlike indignation. He managed to keep his face as his boss explained the economics and the changes to take place. There just wasn’t any room for him and others would be leaving as well. He had settled in there for a long time and had put his demons aside over the years. He had almost forgotten that "other" self and the life that had left his heart and mind scarred. But, that didn’t stop the anxiety and cold that settled into his heart like a grave. Men are what they do in this world. He settled to it numbly but with his wits present. It was just one more thing.
"There’s something to be grateful for...” he thought. He couldn’t bear the idea that he could have made a scene; to have played the baby. He thanked his boss and quietly packed his things and left. Time and discipline insist that failure is part of any solution. So, if this was a solution, what was his problem? After all, it was a job and any job was, after all, just a job. There would be others. In time he had come to face that the world around him demanded dependency. To stand alone was to be alone, and people resented and distrusted that which they could not understand or control. Being a team player was worse than walking the jungles of his youth. It required trust that was all but impossible for him to invest in others around him, but he tried. There were doctors over the years that had helped him cope. But, there were still parts of him untouched and raw.
He put the binoculars away. It would take more than a lost job to kill his good time. He spent another half hour watching the stars. He took some comfort in the distraction and while he was still shaky from his flashback episode today, he knew that the coming day would help to push it all away. Draining the last of the scotch, he turned in.
This week’s typing tip is in response to a question by Hatches reader, Nick S. from Boise, ID. Nick wanted to know if we had any suggestions for a small, lightweight fly tying vise to use streamside, or on backcountry fly-in/ hike-in fly fishing trips.
GLOBE PEQUOT ( THE LYONS PRESS, FALCON), November 1997
Binding Type: Hardcover
Retail Price: $16.95 at the Hatches Store
ISBN: 1-55821-067-9
“The trout’s biggest advantage is selectivity, and we can counteract it only by knowing the insects that make up his diet. This is the reason for the study of stream entomology by the angler, and it is often the weak link in his skill.”
-Ernest Schwiebert
Trout Stream Insects: An Orvis Streamside Guide is by no means a new book. However, since it was first published in 1990, it has successfully been introducing novice …
Called the “bobbin of bobbins,” Marc Petitjean’s “Thread Through Bobbin,” aims to solve a few classic design limitations of standard bobbins.
Sand Creek is a pretty little piece of trout water that harbors some very fussy fish. Clear water in a small creek demands a quiet approach; casting from the bank is a good strategy when fishing small flies to springtime trout. Photo by Russ Forney
Springtime in Wyoming can be pretty elusive. Just when the first flush of prairie wildflowers sweetens the air, the next storm buries them under a foot of snow. Somewhere between the first Meadowlark and the last new calf, winter finally begins to relax its icy grip. …
With rubber legs showing up in more and more fly patterns, one common problem fly tier’s are facing is that they get in the way when tying a whip finish knot. In this week’s Tying Tips, Hatches Magazine staff member Alex Cerveniak shares three quick and easy ways to keep those rubber legs out of the way.
|  Hatches is an annual publication with a strong devotion to professional writing, beautiful photography and informative articles pertaining to both the artistic and practical aspects of fly tying. Each issue features 13 featured articles that span a massive 96 pages.
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