SHOWDOWN at the BLOWDOWNS

 Hey Rap, here's one for you while you're recuperating.
                                   I hope you like westerns.                




                   SHOWDOWN at the BLOWDOWNS
 The day after the ‘1 fly’ Dream Catcher and I got in the wagon and headed back down to the Elk. I headed upstream to the Blowdown Corral. The chill in the morning air along with the cool vapors rising from the water upon my exposed skin, had me glad I dressed warm before sun up. I stood on the bank and noticed an opening between two fly-guys. They already had their long rods warming up casting small patterns with indicators. As I entered the water the gent to my left turned his head to see who was entering the corral. A $2.00 fat half smoked stogie was clinched tight in the corner of his mouth. His small full brimmed tan hat sat loosely on his gray hair. The sage fishing vest he was wearing lay upon his slightly stalky body. Gadgets hung awkwardly from his vest like dangling keys from an old towne watchman’s belt. I asked if there was room for me to fit in? He nodded like a stranger who’s been at the saloon all day and therefore has ownership of the space beside him. I thanked him in my low tone morning voice, waded into place and started to tie one on. The guy to my right I hardly took notice. In drab clothe and stance there was nothing about him that attracted attention. With bright orange fly line extending out of his brand new looking rod had me figuring he was a tenderfoot.
 I started to roll cast to the steelhead targets swimming up and down the stream like a herd of cattle moving in a straight line to market. The lighter colored steelhead I noticed their length while the darker ones I noticed their girth first. About ½an hour after drifting buggers I was getting anxious to hook into one of the steelhead in the herd. I started drifting sucker spawn and egg patterns. The fish would glance at them and some would nose them but none would mouth’em.
 A good fly tier can imitate sucker spawn, bait-fish, buggy looking food and egg patterns but they can’t imitate smell. I knew if that my patterns had smell I would have caught one by now.
 I came to a crossroads, was I here to catch fish or to just look good trying? I held up the yellow beadhead egg pattern in my left hand. I started clipping the chenille off the hook shank. I was desperate! I unraveled the last few thread wraps off the shank of the curved scud hook. I reached in my vest pocket, embarrassed to look up, and pulled out a white vial. I pinched a cured egg with the point of the hook, juice ran around the egg as I slid it up behind the gold bead. ‘Anadromous, forgive me’ I thought. I cupped the vial and slid it back into my vest pocket.
 With line in front of me I roll casted towards the herd of steelhead. As loop rolled forward, the dull green fly line unraveled lightly upon the water surface followed by the leader and small indicator. The beaded egg fell softly into the water not spooking many fish. I watched as deceptive elongated fish swam beneath the refraction of the water surface. The egg dropped and slowly drifted along with the float. A whitish mouth opened to taste the single egg. I lifted the rod and set the hook calling out ‘fish on’.
 Steelhead scattered everywhere as quickly as the indicator disappeared. My reel screamed as fly line sped through the rod guides. Tightly gripping the bent rod I watched fly line extend in front of me as a steelhead exploded out of the water downstream to the left and out from me. Most of my fly line was below the surface in a big arc. I knew I had to get more line above the surface at a straighter line towards the fish to eliminate any undo pressure on my leader and tippet. I lifted the rod higher and tried to keep the line somewhat tighter with my line hand. The fish splashed down and bolted downstream and he pulled out more line as I tried to keep a good bend in the rod shaft. The dark bodied male lifted off again into the air. It’s head and body twisting as its tail splashed upon the water surface to accelerate its body movement almost ‘walking’ across the water.
 Beneath the water he tried to continue with force but my rod pressure was enough to prevent him from heading downstream further with lightning speed. The fish turned as I was in the shallows now following the fish to fight him from the side. With the rod held over fishermen’s heads I got to a point that the fish and I found common ground for a showdown. Swimming upstream I knew the steelhead was building up adrenaline as I kept the line pinched between my fingers waiting any moment for him to explode again. With a quick forceful tail swish it pulled towards the logjam near the opposite bank. I backed up and let the rod bend further. As the line drew tighter I was relying on the strength of my leader to prevent his escape. ****ed off it turned towards me, leaped and submerged. We fought strength to strength, his instinct to my experience. I held my ground then guided the fish to the stogie-chewing gent waiting with his net unholstered. After two passes the steelhead was netted.
 Later on after three more landed, 1 break off and a couple of misses, talk ran down stream asking each other what I was using. No one directly asked me the question so I no reason to announce my fortune. People walking up and down the shoreline would stop and gaze at the herd of fish stretched out along the logjam or another fish being caught by another corral fishermen or me.
 I finally switched to a brown woolly bugger. I overhand casted to reach the logs. The bugger fell just before the logs while at the same time steelhead were moving downstream, from right to left, disturbed by upstream commotion. I pulled the line high and let the bugger fall twice in their zone. The second time my line whipped downstream. I pulled the rod instantly to set the hook deep in the fish’s jaw. Line shot out of the lightly set drag on the reel as I palmed the spool with some pressure. The big steelhead torpedoed out of the water, arcing downstream, and reentering the water head than belly first. I quickly backed into the shallows as line ripped through the eyes of the flexing rod. The fish seemed to have no intention of stopping but continued to put on a show of acrobatic phenomenon. Finally turning it headed for the lone log at the end of the blow down. I had no choice but to keep my rod horizontal and to my side and let the heavy steelhead drop below the log. The big fish got the best of me but I held my ground and finally forced the fish out without breaking off. It headed upstream tormenting me trying not to give me the upper hand. Each time I’d wind in the reel the fat steely would find enough energy to turn away and propel until my rod would bend into the middle. With one last energetic force it shot out of the water. As if in slow motion I watched the sun reflect off her long silvery side like the shine reflecting off of silver concho’s on a show horse’s bridle. Its body twisted in mid-air in trying to shake the hook free before reentering the shattered water. With a few more quick jolts I later subdued the fish as the stogie-chewing gentleman netted the big brute. I took the net and laid the fish on the bank. 27" of shiny chrome lay before me. I unhooked the fly and placed the thick fish into the water. I watched as it swam back to the herd.
 As the noon day sun grew warmer the morning gang started to thin out. Those of us that stood standing were still catching some fish. Like all decent entertaining days there will come to a point when others will take notice where most of the fish are being caught.
 A new group of young guns moved in. They filled in between the gaps and then some. They loaded their silvery shiny spinning rods with unknown ammunition. Geranimo, to my left, was the first to hit his target. Being the silent type everyone had to know he got a fish by the splashes. One of his pardners’ called out for him to let everyone else know ‘fish on’. He held his pole up high cranking the reel continuously fighting the steelhead to the bank. I watched as the gringo beside me, to my right, pitched out a white trout worm and jigged it in. He was good in the way he teased the fish jigging the worm in front of their noses. He finally enticed one and it was ‘fish on’. He too held his pole up high as the fish tumbled and fought across and below the water surface. This went on for about an hour as the bandalero’s were having a good time. Lines snapping, fish caught, talking and ribbing each other like a band of hired hands. Finally the trail boss spoke up and they all disappeared as quickly as they came.

 Peacefulness returned to the Blowdown Corral. The sun glowed hot down among us. I started to feel a slight backache from standing in the cool water all morning. I yawned from the lack of sleep and the over exertion from fishing the past three days. I lazily tied on my last fly of the day, my second place brown woolly bugger. In the distance, noise of joy erupted up by the rock wall as if some high roller just bought a round of drinks at the local saloon.


 I roll cast one last time to the crowded steelhead without a taker as I strip the bugger in. Reeling in the fly line I take the bugger and attach it to the rod hook keeper. I wade back to shore and someone takes my place. I walk slowly along the stony sand to the muddy bank of exit. I look up to see Dream Catcher tiredly walking towards me from the opposite bank. I raise my hand and he nods in approval. Up on the parking lot pavement I wait for my fishing pal. Back in the wagon D.C. lights up a cigarette. He leans over and lights the Macanudo pinched between my lips. All is good!
                                                             
                                                          ~doubletaper

lol. Very good read dt. Now I wish I was heading north instead of banging away at ducks.lol

jerry, absolutely enjoyable.  still say you should try to sell one of these.  also, you have planted the seed deeper towards my getting a 7wt and la reel.  read some of it to my wife and said..........see?   right now, she doesn't like you or riz