Splash Mountain
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Depth Of FieldChapter 1: Splash A Little Water On It free porn video
The end is in the beginning and lies far ahead
- R.E.
“Are you just going to stand there and watch me all day?”
I raised an eyebrow at my sister and smiled slightly. “Is that what you want me to do?”
Lara grinned impishly before turning back toward the lively river, stepping onto the larger rocks that jutted out from the rapids. The sudden lift of her fishing rod gave away the fact that she’d settled too quickly on an unsteady stone. Her toned leg muscles twitched as they tried to make mechanical sense of the wobbly perch. In the end, the extended pole tipped the balance in her favor and she remained dry.
“You’re allowed to step in the water, you know!” I called out.
“Really? I didn’t know that!” The playful sarcasm in her tone soon transformed into mock helplessness. “I’ve never fished before, Matt! Please tell me how it’s done?”
I snorted. “Nothing wrong with getting a little wet.” I’d muttered this statement, but evidently Lara heard my words over the endless commotion of the riffles. She eyed me for a moment.
“A little wet, huh? Daydreaming of Heather, are we?”
I gave her no answer, so after releasing her teasing stare, she continued across the rocks. Eventually she found a flat slab of stone, used a toe to check that it was well-seated in the riverbed, and hopped onto it. She turned toward me, a touch of victory in her eyes.
“I’m still dry,” she announced, pointing her water shoe out.
“For now. But when your hook gets snagged, you’ll have to get in anyway.”
Lara smiled sweetly at me. “Nah, I’ll just call you for help.”
“No way. I’m going upstream.”
“Go then,” she pouted dejectedly. “Leave me here, all alone ... and all wet!”
I chuckled and shook my head. “Whatever! Good luck!” I called out as I climbed through the bushes on the bank.
“Bye!”
The end of summer is not the best time to go fly-fishing, because the lazy streams run shallow and warm. The trout are sluggish and tentative, content to wait out the doldrums in deeper pools and cooler nooks. To have any chance of catching a meal, you have to visit the river either very early or very late, hoping that the fish are partial to a fly that you can barely see in the half-light. On the Esopus Creek, there is the added inconvenience of occasional groups of inner-tube floaters who ‘brave’ the Class II rapids.
Since it was a hot afternoon in late August and a cluster of orange doughnuts could be seen approaching from upriver, I clambered along the bank with very low expectations. Not only was the time of year unfavorable, but my fly-fishing abilities were still somewhat novice. My own experience amounted to a half-dozen weekends, the last of which had been several months ago. My total lifetime catch using fly gear was three small trout, so in truth the inner-tubes and weather probably would not make much difference in my lack of success today.
I eyed the riffles and eddies as I hiked, put off by the presence of overhanging limbs from the trees that grew on the banks. Although I theoretically knew some casting techniques for working a fly in tight quarters, I wanted to find a broader spot where I could ease into the fishing without worrying about an errant backstroke tangling my line in the greedy and unforgiving leaves above me.
After a time, the watercourse widened somewhat and escaped the grip of the trees. The rapids here looked promising. An older angler in hip waders was just stepping out of the shallows nearby, offering me an opportunity to check the conditions. I issued the standard greeting.
“Any luck?”
“A couple,” she replied with a patient smile, casually opening the creel that hung at her hip.
I was impressed. “Nice ones. What were you using?”
She carefully pulled a fuzzy black hook from the woolly patch on her vest, holding it out in her palm. “Ants.”
I eyed her quizzically.
“Put them under the overhanging growth up along there.” She indicated a section of the opposite riverbank where some bushes and tall grasses arched over the water’s edge. “Then let them float down with the current, right next to the bank.”
“Cool, I’ll try that. Where did you get the ants?”
She eyed me with a grin. “Tied them myself. But they’ll have them at the fly shop in town, too. Look, I’m leaving for the afternoon, so go ahead and take this one.” She dropped the ant into my palm.
“Are you sure?”
She nodded. “A ‘Mary J. Special’, all yours!”
“Wow, thanks! I really appreciate it!”
“My pleasure. Good luck to you!”
The woman ambled off as I examined the fly closely. It was a fine piece of work. Fuzzy thread was wound tight for the head and the abdomen, and the black hackle on the thorax made for a decent imitation of ant legs. I glanced one last time at ‘Mary J.’ as she disappeared into the trees. A good fishing tip was always welcome, I knew. The sight of the two rainbows in her basket had suddenly given me more hope for catching dinner. Her generosity with the ant also had produced a warm feeling of happiness.
After the cluster of people floating on the inner tubes splashed by, I waded out into the stream. I didn’t bother with the care Lara had taken to stay above the playful surface, instead finding a submerged path to reach the middle. The feel of the cool creek around my legs was delightful. Unlike the angler I’d just met, I wore a bathing suit and water shoes, since I didn’t have the money for a pair of hip waders. I did own a fishing vest, though, a proud birthday acquisition from just over a year ago.
I glanced downstream at Lara, catching sight of a silver flash shooting through the air in front of her. She’d probably have better luck than me, although the fish that had the energy to chase spinners at this hour were usually young and small. Not too little to eat, though; even an eight-inch rainbow was worth throwing on the pan with some butter. My stomach growled at this thought, so I spooled some filament off of my reel, watching it loop onto the surface. I cast back and forth, letting the line grow longer in the air with each pass. The feeling was strange at first, but soon my muscles remembered how to await the weight of the rod. Then I took aim and let the thick line unfurl onto the water in front of me. The black ant was hard to see, even after I dropped my polarized glasses into place. I allowed it to travel in the current until it started to drag unnaturally, at which point any trout would be onto the ruse. Time to pull the fly into the air again.
I worked the rod in the classic back and forth motion that defines fly-fishing. I’d been attracted to this type of angling by that very technique. The gentle snaking of a bright line overhead looked like more fun than the cast-and-reel-in approach that typical tackle required. Not only fun, fly-fishing was also challenging. Aside from the complex art of choosing the proper mock insect, the casting demanded a certain rhythm: too fast, and the fly would snap in the air like a whip; too slow, and the line would lose power and fall to the river in a tangle. Just right, and you could put an imitation bug exactly where you wanted it.
Thump.
I’d lost sight of the fly in the current. At first, the slight pulse felt like a snag, causing a pang of disappointment within me. Nothing was as disruptive to the peaceful rhythm of fly-fishing as having to wade across the water and dislodge a hook from a submerged branch or patch of moss. Besides the personal annoyance, this also spooked any fish in the area, what with my legs thrashing through their living quarters.
But it wasn’t a snag! I felt life on the other side of the line and my disappointment immediately turned to excitement. If the fish had made a splash when it inhaled the ant, the motion had been lost in the natural chaos of small rapids. It was luck, then, that I’d pulled on the line right after the trout took the hook. I kept the rod tip high as I slowly reeled in, feeling the vibrations on the other end. It was a short fight and I soon spotted silver flashes as I drew the catch close. Even though I was optimistic enough to carry a net on my back, this one was too small for that sort of trouble. I pulled it up into the air and smiled. A nine-inch rainbow. Could be worse, I thought.
A minute later I was on the bank, fish in fist, hurrying to where Lara was still working the river. I didn’t have a creel, so my only option was to take the prize to her bucket of water. This would prove to be time-consuming if I caught a lot of fish, but for now this first one was a good opportunity to show off. Apparently Lara had seen me approaching, since she was hopping back to shore. I noted that she was still dry and sporting a large grin. Hah, she saw my catch!
“Got one!” I exclaimed proudly.
“Me too!”
I gawked at her in surprise as we met at the bucket. “Really?”
“Two of them!” she clarified.
I peered into the container. Indeed, a pair of trout were swimming therein. One was over a foot long, a nice catch by any standard.
“Whoa! That’s a big one, Lara!”
“Yeah, they must be hungry today. A few other bites, too!”
“This is awesome! We’re going to feast like royals tonight!”
Lara eyed my fish as I dropped it into the bucket. “Two to one,” she said simply.
“No way, I’m not playing that game with you!”
She widened her eyes as she laughed. “Sensitive, are we?”
“I’m not sensitive,” I answered patiently.
“Still angry that Heather always kicks your ass at fishing?”
“Angry? What are you talking about? I was never angry that she won. Besides, we’ll see what happens when she comes to fish on my turf.”
Lara sniggered. “I wouldn’t count on any advantage. I’m even beating you!”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re not fly-fishing, first of all. And anyway, it’s kind of early to be claiming victory.”
“Oh, so we’re on, then?” Her eyes glinted mischievously.
“No, we’re not on.”
“Fine, save all the fun for her,” she rejoined.
“I’m going back to my spot.”
“Good luck finding your spot!”
I was a dozen yards away when she called out, “Two to one!”
“Not playing!”
I looked back with a grin, prepared to stick a tongue out at her, but she was already bouncing along the river stones. I returned to the same area where I’d caught my fish, fluffed up the lucky ant, and returned to it. To save face, I knew I’d need to catch at least as many as Lara did this weekend. Even if there was no formal contest in play, Lara wouldn’t hesitate to let Heather know the unofficial outcome. Of that, I was sure.
Lara and I were on our own for this trip. After returning from our three-week vacation to Montauk, I was eager to go fishing while school was still out for the summer. If I was going to teach Heather how to fly-fish when she came to visit sometime this year, I would need to be in good practice myself. Since we’d only been back from my aunt’s house for less than a week, my parents nixed a family camping outing due to household duties they needed to tend to. However, they suggested that if I could persuade Lara to go with me, they would drop the two of us off at a campground for a couple of days. Lara was surprisingly easy to convince, so it was decided. As long as we were safe and acted like adults – ‘Of course we will!’ – our moms said that there was no reason they needed to be there with us.
The Esopus Creek was less than an hour from our house. Sarah had dropped us off at our campsite near the river a few hours ago. My mom was a skilled hand with outdoor equipment, so the setup went swiftly. She was on the road back home an hour later, leaving Lara and I sitting at the picnic table, grinning at each other like little kids. Alone for two days. It felt like a big moment. Freedom!
A bump on the line brought me to the present. I caught another one! I gave an excited pull on my fishing rod, groaning when it tightened up, taut and unmoving. Damn it. I caught the earth. Reluctantly, I started wading over toward the far bank where the hook was invisibly snagged, reeling in line as I went. Not everything was easy.
My early luck hadn’t persisted. A few hours later I was still sitting on the nine-inch singleton. I’d gradually wandered upstream over the course of time, lost in the lazy feel of summer’s late afternoon warmth. The bank had stopped offering overhanging brush from which imitation ants could pretend to fall, so I switched flies to a slate drake pattern that the tackle shop had recommended that morning. The ruddy bug was a little easier to track on the surface than the ebon ant was, but still nothing took the bait. At one point, Lara came by to let me know that she was going to read back at camp, having had no further success. She took a moment to remind me of the score, before skipping off through the woods.
I was sitting on the bank tying on a complete new leader – damn overhanging tree – when I heard silvery voices floating above the bubbly swishes of the water. It sounded like a group of girls laughing and generally having a good time, so I scanned the opposite bank. Sure enough, they soon came into view through the trees. I got a clear look at them as the trail wound down to the edge of the stream, delivering their happy faces into a little clearing that was free of undergrowth. The three girls looked to be just a bit older than I was. Even at my distance of perhaps fifteen yards, I could see that they were sweaty from a long hike, skin glistening in the beam of sun they stepped through. They were also cute and most certainly in shape.
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