Getting skunked is a humbling experience, and so is falling into the water. If I had to choose, I would take the plunge if it meant catching fish. Of course no one has the privilege to choose when the fish will bite or when the foot will stumble or to experience neither or both.
On this trip I caught fish. I also fell into the water. If it was only a brief dunk and bruised ego, it really wouldn't be worth mentioning; I fall a lot. But this fall reminded me of the real threat, ever present, whenever alone in the wilderness.
This particular stream is remarkable for its sheer grade. It drops down the side of a mountain like a gigantic set of stairs, water pouring down as if there is a busted pipe in an upper story bathroom. Except the rise between each step is 10-20ft of granite and above each waterfall there is a pool teeming with brook trout.
Among such rugged beauty one can be forgiven for getting distracted by the splendor. Unfortunately the river does not share such sentiment. One misstep on a steep rock can be your last and this is where I made my mistake. I was reaching for a branch that had unfortunately fastened itself to my fly and put all my weight on a rock that caught just enough spray from the descending water. It was like stepping on a maxed out treadmill. Immediately my feet were no longer under me, but level with my waist, my body rotated 45 degrees momentarily floating above the rock ledge. This is where I credit a childhood spent skateboarding… I know how to fall and what to protect. In that aerial moment, I sent my rod flying vertical and gripped my head with both hands preparing for the backwards assault. My back and shoulders made first contact with the rock before momentum took over. I bounced down the rocks end over end like a breadstick. I stuck the landing in the way a bag of flour sticks the landing off the counter with a thud and guttural exhale, there may have even been a cloud of dust. They say water can act as hard as concrete when struck from a certain height… I don't know what they say about hitting six inches of water over a bed of gravel from about seven feet, but it felt like concrete.
Laying in the water blankly looking up at where I was seconds ago, Royal Wulff still thoroughly attached to the tree, it took some convincing that I did not in fact hit my head and that pain in my extremities was in fact a good sign. My fly rod, in some form of solidarity, followed me down the falls. The four piece rod lived up to its name, each section separating and hidden below white water. I would have never found all the pieces but for that #16 Wulff, vibrating away in the tree as water crashed against the fly line. The very source of my descent yet also my redeemer. I reeled the spooled out line until I could follow the tension to the next rod section, working my way back up the rocks...slowly. Once more I found myself in the same situation, rod back together, fly stuck in tree. After such a debacle I was not going to lose this fly. It seemed symbolic or at least consolatory. This time, with utmost prejudice I chose a dry rock in which to put my trust and body weight. As if to say, “we are not all treacherous,” it lifted me to recover the fly.
The next cast, a brook trout violently swiped my fly off the surface seemingly unaware or uncaring of the story below. To some extent so was I, because moments after grappling with my mortality, I found myself right back to grappling with those voracious little trout.
