Everything Outdoors with Chalen

The grass crunches underfoot
on my way to the creekbank
“Fire Danger: High”
reads the sign at the trailhead
too dry, much too dry lately

The walk is longer than it used to be
the water, retreating downstream
has left less of the creek there
the sun on near still pools
seem more intense
or perhaps simply concentrated
the same sun on less water
low water.

The fish that remain
those that did not flee with the water
are hungered by the staleness of the water
barely moving, bringing them no food
but in their shaded hides and cut bank hollows
they lurk
waiting for drifting insects
waiting, hoping for morsels

As I work upstream
casting into the minute shaded pockets
the water shows what life it has left
the ravenous inhabitants dart from safety
and taking no caution
attack my fly with abandon

Swift and stout
darting in blues, greens, oranges
punching well above their weight
the miscellany of panfish fight
much more than their fingerling size

One after another they come
small, but sturdy
and in such numbers
that in telling about it later
I must leave a few out to be believed

Walking what was once the creekbed
I make note
of features once hidden
and when the water returns
I will know the haunts and snags
that fish will call home
a sad advantage afforded anglers
by low water

A broad bend shows the time worn channels
where the creek has run
leaving a pool
now amputated from the flow of the creek
where the water has warmed
and film coats the surface

I almost miss it
casually passing in the corner of my eye
a hint of movement
the lazed flick of a fin

A closer look discloses
in the tepid pool
a gar
the toothy, torpedo-shaped dinosaur
trapped in a shrinking vessel

To catch a gar is always a joy
but this feel different
to catch it, yes
but to set it free
in the diminishing water

The fish seems lethargic
no fly can rise it
what to do?
how to stay the certain demise
should it remain
The needle-like teeth
gleam at me as I enter the pool
the gar drifts aimlessly
making no effort to escape

I’m close now
bending slowly, I reach down
slowly cradling the fish
gently lifting it from the water
It makes no struggle
no thrashing or jerks
the gar seems dull
less slimy than I’m used to

As I walk it over to the remaining channel
it slowly rotates its fins
yearning towards the water
I slip it into the water
and for a moment it hangs motionless
then effortlessly it glides towards cover

Leaving only a memory
of low water.

I always love going home to the farm. There is something about going back to where my passion for the outdoors began that makes each trip so special. Taking my son fishing with my father and grandfather, helping him catch fish and explore the same places I explored in my youth. On our most recent trip back, my wife Julia and I stopped by a long forgotten farm pond to test the waters.

We were quick to be rewarded with some chunky little panfish, Julia throwing a green and black trout magnet, one of our favored prospecting lures, and myself swinging a small soft hackle on my tenkara rod. This pond was low, like many here in Missouri right now, and we had a little better access for it. What used to be a pretty steep bank due to years of cattle use more than two decades ago has softened to a more casual slope. Getting right to the water’s edge was critical for me, with my limited cast range.

We continued to fish as the sunk sank in the sky, pulling in bluegill, redear sunfish, hybrids, white crappie, and, the triumph of the evening, a couple sassy bullheads that gave us hope for returning to this pond in the future. Having lost a couple flies to bad knots, I was tying them on more carefully, but as we ran out of daylight, I knew we were nearing the end of our excursion.

Just as I was pondering packing up, Julia hollered at me from across the pond. She had caught an unassuming green sunfish, that, given what we found, was particularly voracious. Hammering down on another of her trout magnets, this was one of the very fish I had lost a fly to earlier! There, in the corner of the jaw, was my fly, which went back into my box for the next trip. As we cruised back up the gravel road to my parent’s house, where our son was playing around the campfire with his cousin, it was tough to imagine a more relaxing place than the farm.