The Trout

The Trout


The stream was running fast, burbling over the rocks. There were pools eddying in spots on the stream. Hiding in the pools were trout; big, fast, strong brook trout looking for food, waiting patiently for some tender morsel to drift by.

The fisherman moved slowly towards the pool. Its prospects were encouraging. He had seen a rise or two while he was scouting the area, and he had marked this spot in his mind.

The sun was hidden behind clouds, so he didn’t make a shadow that would alarm whatever was hidden in the pool. Slowly he waded into the stream, the felt bottoms of his boots muffling the vibrations of his steps.

A Royal Coachman fly was tied to the line, similar to the ones his uncle used to tie. His rod, limber yet strong, was of sufficient quality for what he needed, but not one of those ultra-expensive rods that you would be afraid to get wet. Or break. His rod was well used, as if he had spent quite a long time in the water, flicking flies toward his opponents, the trout.

After letting some line out, the fisherman deftly flicked his wrist, accurately causing the fly to hit its mark. Time and again, using talent that only comes through years of experience; he drew the fly in and impelled it to another location. Regardless of the outcome, the fisherman was content.

The fish had watched the lure pass him several times without being tempted. This last time, however, was once too much. With a flick of his tail, he lunged at the fly, moving at a speed that defied belief. Mouth open, the trout took the fly and turned back to the shelter of the rock he was hiding behind. But something unexplained was holding him back.

Suddenly the water exploded with fury. Fish on!

The fisherman’s face held a determined grin, but his mind was silently yelling, “Tip up! Tip up!” Stumbling a little at the ferocity of the fight, the man held his pole up while trying to maintain his balance. Line screamed from the reel as the fish sought freedom. The man, with gentle firmness, slowly began to reel the fish in.

The fish, unused to such treatment, fought the line that was controlling him. His head strewed right and left in an attempt to throw the hook, his tail trying to turn him back toward the safe, secure bottom of the pool. Neither attempt worked. Slowly, inevitably, he came to the surface.

The fisherman was surprised at the length and heft of the fish. Surely this was a trophy. He brought his net towards the fish, looping it under it, capturing it in the mesh.

He had never seen a fish of this quality. Its skin was perfect, its flesh firm and strong. He lifted the fish out of the net and examined it carefully. What to do with it was the question running through his mind. He could keep it, or he could let it go.

If he kept it, he had two options. He could eat it. Yes… a pan with some butter, salt and pepper… add a few herbs… Ah, heaven. The thought of how a fresh caught trout cooked on an open fire excited his senses. He was almost salivating at the thought of how it would taste. But… and there was always a but, he could bring it back and have it mounted, hanging it on the wall for all to see and admire. That was option two.

As he pondered these two options the third option kept coming to his mind. “Let it go” wandered through his thoughts. “Let it live, give it freedom.” Curiously, this option was gaining a firm place in his brain. He again reviewed the options before him: Let it go, cook it, mount it. What to do, what to do?

In the end, the matter was taken out his hands, literally. The fish, with a mighty flexing of muscle wriggled out of the surprised fisherman’s hands and splashed into the water, where he quickly swam away.

“Ok,” the fisherman thought, “you won this round. I’ll be back. Soon, very soon.”








This story was created for and inspired by Mike Bellin.
May you fish forever.
Merry Christmas.


Jeff Quigley 12/20/2010