Of battleships and rowboats by John C. Street

There is a stream a decent drive from here that my wife and I enjoy fishing together. It has sections that offer relatively easy wading to fit her diminutive physical stature but it also has some water big enough to provide a pucker-factor, even for a strong swimmer like me. We’ve caught a few trout in this stream that were of bragging proportions but mostly we consider anything in the fourteen to sixteen range a major conversation piece and when we fish this stream we generally don’t run out of conversation.

Anyway, one evening Kathy and I made the longish drive - and an equally long hike upstream - to spend the evening on one of our favorite stretches of this water.  Since this was nearly two months past opening day and we had come several foot-miles upstream, we didn’t expect to see anyone else. And we didn’t, for about an hour.

At the top end of the run where we decided to spend the evening, there are two tongues of water that come together after wrapping around a small island. This particular stretch offers two distinct types of fishing, one side is a classic smooth water run, the other side is rock studded and brawling. And where the two licks come together, a long deep glide forms that tapers into the type of pool that might be featured in a calendar photograph of a trout stream.

Kathy and I had split up so that we could each work the type of water that suited us, she - with her ever present dry fly - took the classic little run and I waded into the brawling, white water section. There’s enough natural stream noises to make it difficult to talk so any strange splashing sounds meant that one or the other of us had gotten into a fish and every few minutes I’d hear breaking water and turn to give her a congratulatory wave.

I’d really like to say, since she didn’t start fishing until after we met, that I taught her everything she knows but Kathy is one of those people who picks things up through osmosis or some deep cosmic learning process that I haven’t mastered yet. I don’t really know how or where she learned some of the things she pulls off with a dry fly but I do know she’s awfully good at it and this night was no exception.

I, on the other hand, was fishing a largish, weighted nymph as close to the bottom as four pinched on split-shot could drag it and was doing pretty well myself. And, since I’m the one telling this story, you’ll just have to believe me that - although Kathy may have caught a few more than I did - mine were all "conversation" pieces or better. And so, the first hour passed.

Then, his approach concealed by the noise of the running water, and seeming to appear out of nowhere, we were joined by another fisherman. By the time I looked up and saw him, he had entered the water directly behind Kathy and was chucking an oversized stick-bait lure over her right shoulder into the middle of the run where she was fishing.

Worse yet, I quickly discovered, he was accompanied by three buddies who were standing on the bank watching while they rigged up their own rods.  When I glanced over and made eye contact with them I could see they were checking me for a reaction and I’m sure they could tell by my facial expression that I wasn’t happy with their pal. At this point I was hoping that my warning glance would encourage them to be polite and fish down past us. Their friend, apparently, had other ideas.

And then I heard the distinct snap of Kathy’s fly line and turned in time to see the man behind her recover from a flinch. Mustering up the calmest tone of voice that I could - after all, there were four of these guys - I shouted, " a little courtesy would go a long way."  I though I saw a nasty word form on his lips although, like I said before, the water made conversation difficult so it may have been just my imagination.

Now, Kathy isn’t one of those dainty little things who expects her battleship attitudes to be backed up by her row boat husband.  She was handling this breach of etiquette by flicking her back casts in earnest at the yahoo behind her and he was ducking and diving pretty good. He was also getting a little agitated and was starting to wade out into the water although this wasn’t of immediate concern because his hip-boots weren’t going to allow him anywhere near the deeper water where she was standing in chest waders.

While I was making my way back towards shore, I was trying to decide whether it would be better to go after the jerk in the water before he knew I was there or prepare myself to confront his three buddies on the bank. To my utter relief, however, since the one who looked like the ringleader was a good notch or two bigger than me, the other intruders backed up to the far side of the gravel bar and fell into an animated conversation.

By this time, the guy in the water was watching my approach as carefully as he could and still be mindful of the backcasts flicking around his ears. He was also, judging by the change in his demeanor, aware that his buddies weren’t coming to his rescue and that he had some touchy water to negotiate as he turned and started back to where I was now standing between him and shore. “You don’t own this f…..g stream," he snapped when he got a couple of rod lengths from me.  “You aren’t the only ones allowed to fish here, ya’ know." I assured him that we didn’t own the stream but that like everyone else, we expected - and gave in return - a little courtesy.

I know he was just attempting to growl his pride back because he’d stepped to the side rather than wade too close to me.  And I was just about to back out of his way when, pointing his spinning rod accusingly at Kathy, he said, "that b…h was trying to hit me with her backcasts."

His body language told me that any potential for a physical confrontation was over and I figured the parting shot belonged to me.  "If my wife had wanted to hit you with her backcast," I said, stepping in front of him again to be sure I had his attention, "she’d still be playing you out in the middle of that pool."