A One In A Million Fly

In Hap’s life, numbers mattered. He knew that his preferred fishing site was 17 minutes away from his home and that, if he parked in his usual spot, he reached the water’s edge in 182 steps.

Photo: Yancy Lind

When Hap arrived at his destination that evening, there was no one else nearby. He assembled his gear in silence, glanced at the distant bridge, and set out on the upstream path, beyond the crushed grass, the discarded soda cans and the snack food wrappers. He often brought a plastic bag to collect the streamside debris, but this time he ignored the litter and slowly stepped downward from the bank into the opaqueness flowing beneath the overhanging limbs of a scraggly willow tree. Clouds of dark, fluttering insects surrounded him. 

At home, his garage thermometer registered 79 degrees, but the canyon was easily 15 degrees cooler and the river colder still.

Starting close to the shore, the angler methodically covered the nearby water with his 11-foot, 4-weight trout Spey. Fifty-five casts later, without a tug, he retrieved the fly. While considering which pattern to try next, Hap’s eyes drifted to the low, concrete span supported by 5 pairs of pylons. He counted 4 eastbound vehicles, 3 SUVs and a pickup, as well as a large delivery van headed west across the bridge.

From his worn, metal fly box Hap chose a size-14 caddis soft hackle, a proprietary design. After years of staring at figures, he was decidedly nearsighted. To compensate, he removed his sunglasses, dangled them from the leather strap around his neck, and then raised his fingers until they were inches from his nose. Two tries later, he completed a satisfactory knot.

Intent upon catching at least 1 fish, the retiree moved further upstream until his feet touched the rounded rocks of a submerged, gravel bar. Using a wading staff to steady himself, he progressed up the low mound, stopped and completed a 40-foot cast slightly upstream and across the current. The end of the orange floating line swung through the sunlit shallows into deeper water and hesitated. A less experienced fly fisher would have ignored the almost imperceptible pause, but Hap responded by quickly stripping a handful of line.  The rod tip bowed and a short time later, the accountant netted a 15-inch Redband trout.

For the next 25 minutes, he methodically worked the drop off, immersing himself in the task. In the process, he landed 3 fish similar in size to his first catch and lost another. By the time he finished, weak sunlight bathed only his face. He reattached the hook to the keeper and considered calling it an evening until he noticed a succession of larger fish finning several rod lengths away, nearer to the main channel. He decided there was enough light for another dozen casts.

To improve his casting angle, Hap descended the downstream side of the gravel bar until the water lapped above his wading belt. He no longer needed sunglasses, but the retiree didn’t want to waste time changing eyewear. Mesmerized by the tantalizingly close dorsal fins, he shoved the wading staff into the gravel and, without pausing to confirm the tip had found solid purchase, lifted his right foot and leaned on the staff.

Like most anglers, Hap had experienced numerous wading-related spills, but always in shallow water. This time, when the tip of the staff slipped on the moss-covered rocks, he lost his balance, fell sideways, and submerged completely.

A surge of cold water invaded the space between his body and the wading belt. Shocked by the unexpected chill, Hap involuntarily gulped a mouthful of fluid. When he surfaced, he was spitting river water. 

Hap’s fishing cap had bobbed free and drifted away. He lost his grip on the Spey and then reconnected with the cork before the rod joined the wayward hat.

Kicking furiously, the retiree tried to find the riverbed. When he failed to do so, he instinctively knew he was in trouble. His thoughts flashed to drowning and he wondered where they would recover his body. How far downstream?

Still flailing, and floating backward, Hap swiveled his head to orient himself. 

He had fallen into deep, relatively calm water, but the much faster main current spun his body. Paddling with his empty hand, he tried to keep his eyes facing downstream. He considered releasing the Spey but changed his mind when he remembered the fly rod’s $995 price tag.

The gray sunglass lenses artificially darkened everything, but even so, Hap knew it was almost dusk. In the gathering darkness, he would inevitably strike one of the boulders strewn across the channel.

He was cold and beginning to shiver. The waders trapped some warmth, but there was no way to keep his upper back and neck out of the water.

The fly fisher floated through a lengthy section of rapids, grasped at a trapped log, but lost his hold on the water-soaked bark. The current carried him toward the western shoreline, an area choked with wild berry bushes, alders, dense undergrowth and fallen trees. Unable to control his course, Hap eyed the looming sweepers. He snagged a low hanging branch only to have the leaves slip through his fingers.

When he entered an eddy just beyond the shoreline, he tried yelling, but the words barely cleared his throat.

The 17-minute drive back to his home seemed increasingly unlikely.

Away from the tumult of the rapids, the river was surprisingly serene. A fish splashed nearby, and bats darted above him indifferent to his plight. Hap’s breathing slowed, he relaxed his neck muscles and decided there were worse ways to meet his end. He felt detached from his body as if he was observing himself from above.

Drifting aimlessly, Hap didn’t immediately notice the lights. Even the erratic grinding barely registered. More time passed — the noise intensified. Gradually, as if awakening from a dream, Hap recognized the sound. It was a truck downshifting. He was nearing the bridge.

The eastbound semi-trailer rounded the final curve, descended the slope, and braked in anticipation of the crossing. For an instant, the truck’s headlights played across the water. Hap could see that he was headed into a channel between the shore and a pair of concrete pylons.

With minimal time to act, the former accountant released his grip on the Spey and flung his upper torso toward the dark vertical cylinder. His outstretched fingers slapped the concrete, skidded across the periphery of the bridge support and splashed back into the water. Another gush of water entered his waders. Feeling heavier than before and colder, Hap floated toward the next pylon in the pair. His outstretched left palm touched the pillar and, as his hand slid across the side of the 18-inch diameter pylon, his index and middle fingers closed around a stray piece of chicken wire fencing concealed just below the water line.

The fencing slipped and stretched but was too intertwined with the other debris on the piling to break free. Gripping the wire mesh with as much strength as he could muster, the retiree rode the current sideways into the calmer water behind the pylon. 

Wincing from the cuts to his fingers inflicted by the narrow wire, the angler pulled himself up to the pillar, exhaled and took stock of his situation. Among the first things he noticed was the trout Spey, improbably pinned lengthwise against the front of the column. He was tempted to capture the expensive rod but unwilling to release his grip on the lifesaving wire.

To his right, a thick band of vegetation merged with the river. The amorphous mass was a tantalizing 20 to 25 feet away. Unfortunately, he was in deep water, with a strong current separating him from possible salvation. Swimming across the short distance seemed implausible.

Hap felt safer than before, but the numbing cold was relentless. There was no guarantee the chicken wire would hold and, even if it did, he knew it was suicidal to spend more time partially submerged.

The accountant’s attention drifted back to the trout Spey. Other than gently rocking up and down, the fly rod remained surprisingly steady, tenuously held in place by the current. As Hap watched the water coursing around the cork handle, he thought about the soft hackle attached to the hook keeper and felt a mental nudge.

Using his right hand, Hap reached forward across the narrow pylon, released the caddis imitation and carefully rotated the rod until it was pointing downstream. As he fed line into the current, the retiree tried to recall whether the tippet was 4X or 5X but decided it didn’t matter, neither was likely to hold the fish he had in mind. When the backing knot passed through his fingers he stopped stripping line. His left arm was stiff from the constant exertion required to maintain his position and he was beginning to lose feeling in both hands so, rather than thinking any further about his plan, he acted.

Leaning backward, Hap swung the rod toward the river channel, paused an instant, and completed the most forceful forward cast he could muster. When he pulled back, the line was taut. Inhaling deeply, the accountant released his hold on the wire mesh and quickly clasped both hands around the Spey, just above the reel. He fervently hoped the line would remain intact long enough to swing him, like a pendulum, toward the shore.

The current instantly sucked him under. When he surfaced, he could feel the Spey shaking as the backing shot from the reel. He was already well away from the bridge. Something struck his right foot and scraped up his leg. A sharp jolt coursed through the fly rod and the retiree felt his body picking up speed.

Hap released the graphite and, with both arms, thrashed the water. The end of a branch scratched his face. Legs pumping, the former accountant clutched the greenery with both hands and eased himself into the vegetation.

Panting from exertion and relief, Hap collapsed in the watery embrace of the leaves where he remained for several minutes. He had lost his sunglasses somewhere below the bridge and could barely discern anything around him. Hands shaking, he searched through his vest until he located his regular eyeglasses in an upper pocket. Once he could see his surroundings, he struggled through the shrubbery to the muddy bank and the sagebrush beyond. 

Stopping frequently to rest and calm himself, the angler limped back to the highway and crossed the bridge to his SUV. 

The next day, Hap’s wife drove him back to the river. Against her strident objections, he insisted she drop him at the bridge. The retiree walked the western bank for over an hour without locating the trout Spey and eventually decided that was an acceptable outcome. After all, the fly rod had saved his life, it might do the same for another angler.

Working his way back to the bridge, Hap descended the bank where he located the backing, the fly line and the caddis soft hackle, the latter’s hook point firmly embedded in an alder limb.

Several weeks later, the retired accountant mounted a shadow box below his garage thermometer. When visitors inquired about the framed contents, a bedraggled, size-14 caddis soft hackle with an overly enlarged gape, Hap told them it was a one-in-a-million fly.