the island of few words

The Island of Few Words 

My favorite day of fishing didn’t come from one of the 50 days I fished over the summer, but rather the weekend just beforehand. The weekend when we put 25 and a half miles on our feet in a desperate attempt to catch fish.

It all varied from walking for what seemed like days up the valley, to sneaking through a cow pasture without being trampled, and eventually making our way to the river. Learning about a new stream, and then deciding against fishing it, and walking half a mile to fish a different one. 

The end of those days left us walking down the interstate after we decided to quit fishing only to go back to camp, eat something and go fishing again. We would drag chairs into the tent to stay off the wet ground while we slept and constantly waking up throughout the night to the radio playing, or stoking the fire and watching the smoke slowly trickle into the haze of fog that filled the valley. 

Instead, my favorite day started when we took the tent down and slept in the cabin that was built entirely of milk crates over eighty years ago. The couches made due for the night, and just after it had seemed we had fallen asleep, the alarm broke the silence, At four, it sent us scurrying to get the coffee started, put our waders on, and pull our rods down from the hooks over the wood stove. 

After we sipped our two cups of coffee down and decided no more energy could be obtained, we walked in pure silence. No birds singing, owls hooting, or coyotes howling. Just the sound of the stream, footsteps on a wooden bridge, and the crunch of gravel on a dirt road. 

The only light was from the moon, and it hardly penetrated through the fog. As we walked, silhouettes of the cows watching us could be seen, and soon we came to the small patch of woods where the stream and river came together. 

From there, we were as cautious as ever, trying our hardest through the dreariness to remember the limits of the flooded island and hopefully not go for any swims. From that point on, it was one of the most beautiful things man could experience: complete peace. No worries, no noise (other than the flow of water rushing around our legs), and no need to say a word. 

It was just us standing on an island completely covered in water, casting into the pitch black and wondering what possibly drove us to do this. After many casts, we were answered when my line went tight on the strip, and a thrashing could be heard through the darkness. Disbelief was the most prominent feeling at the time, and when it had finally been scooped into the net, we knew it was all worth it.

A smallmouth around 22 inches long laid in the net, looking into the vague light. We tried to get ready for a picture, and after slipping the almost 8 inch long fly out of its mouth, an escape was made, and once again we were struck with disbelief. 

Slowly the morning ticked, and through the minimal light, a tundra swan was spotted in a log jam below us. As light pressed on, birds started singing their hearts out, and through the mist crested a bald eagle on a journey to head upriver. 

Soon, wood ducks started emerging through the fog and tried to land on the island, but flared when we would make our next cast. And yet, through all the excitement, no fish were landed. 

Then I heard it. Through Jacob’s lips slipped the words “Got one,” and through my hands slipped my rod as my net fulfilled the gap. I ran over to him only to watch the fish win the battle. Determined to get another one, we got back at it. Once again the words were said although this time the fish slipped in the net. We were able to get a picture before releasing what was another beautiful smallmouth, just a hair under the size of the first, but making up for it in its pattern and deep brown color. 

It was then that we had felt complete but wanting more, only to end up quitting an hour later to head back to camp. Only this time, with birds chirping, the sun as our light source, and the fog gone. The cows still stared us down and the gravel still crunched under our feet, but it will never compare to the walk of that morning.