(This is entirely a true story!)
It was a brisk day compared with recent days that early April. The wind was blowing too, taking with it any warmth that lingered off a body. Still it was a good Friday, a genuine Good Friday, and with churches shuttered due to Covid-19 and the protagonist of this story an ill-practiced devotee of any religion anyway, even his own Judaism, a trip to a river for a bit of fly fishing was a reasonable thing to do.
And wasn’t Jesus a fisherman? No, that was Peter; Jesus was a carpenter. That doesn’t change the story. It was just a thought that entered into it.
He drove to a local favorite, known for its wild brook trout, and a stream that had been most rewarding in the prior weeks and not disappointing on similarly cool days. Besides, with the markets closed for the holiday there was little else that would distract him with elation or depression, that course dependent on the direction of the S&P 500.
He fished a pool that had been rewarding as recently as that Tuesday. To be sure, it had been warmer, sunnier, and far less windy, allowing the bugs the trout eat to hatch in abundance and get the fish into a feeding frenzy. If frenzied enough, said fish would then be lured to the delicate fly he offered them at the end of a remarkably thin piece of plastic called a tipper and so be brought to the net he carried on his back.
He managed to land one in that net, and hook and lose another, and then got nothing for a while other than cold feet exacerbated by a self-diagnosis of Raynaud’s Disease or reluctance to do something daunting, i.e. having cold feet. He stumbled out of this particular stretch of the stream to allow some blood to recirculate and to explore further downstream for more likely spots.
On the way he met a man, a man with a beard, in his early 30s but with a face that seemed older than those years. The man, too, was sporting fishing gear. “Hello,” the man said softly. “Howdy,” was offered in response as he edged off the narrow path to maintain a 10-foot distance. “Any luck up ahead?”
The man’s smiled broadened. In a decidedly New York accent that would be fitting in Zabar’s on a Saturday morning he explained that he got two in that pool, three in this pool, and several more in areas you wouldn’t think there’d be any. “You?” he concluded.
“Five,” was his response, curling his toes with the thrill of his deception and a return of some feeling. As any fisherman well knows, you always add a few to the number as well as some inches to the size. It’s an accepted rule of the game.
They exchanged tips on what they used: nymphs on a dry-fly dropper, or two nymphs with a little weight to get them down. Small nymphs were the consistent theme they agreed.
They both looked back the way they’d come and suggested areas for the other to try. They thanked each other and walked off.
You may wonder why two men seeking the same prey would offer such advice. With limited fish, limited time and limited good spots, surely they would be more protective about good places. Indeed they were and both knew it. The spots they pointed to were areas they’d already fished, spooking the trout out of the game so to speak, at least until they forgot they’d been hooked or slapped with someone’s fishing line a few dozen times. That takes a while.
Fly fishers know the protocol, but try to maintain something of genteel and friendly attitude towards each other. It’s not unheard of for one fisherman to give another a fly that hasn’t been working but recommending it highly, or some tippet material, or fly flotant, or strike indicator, if the other ran out. Rare, but not unheard of so you exchange advice, boasts, and lies and everyone understands what’s at stake.
Our fisherman, of course, was now angry. Why? Because while he had lied about catching five, rounding down to an honest two, the other had implied 10 or so which rounds down to at least an honest six. The other fisherman clearly was having the better day, so our fisherman switched to the dry fly and nymph rig just in case.
His now defrosted feet were back in the water as he roll cast towards a log on the far bank of a deep pool. The log would slow the current and a fish, maybe more, would hold near it and enter the riffling water to get a bite to eat and then return to the more gentle flow by the log.
He cast, and recast, and hooked his lower fly, the nymph, onto an overhanging branch – not a rare occurrence – and was pulling gently in hope he could extract the fly intact while in the knowledge he’d probably lose both flies.
It was then he heard the odd chatter.
At first, he ignored it, concentrating on getting his flies but the chattering had gotten a bit louder. He twisted his torso to the sound because his now refrozen feet couldn’t move with his upper body.
And there, not four feet from him, standing as no raccoon (spoiler alert) should, was a raccoon. It was very large as far a raccoons go, but then he’d never been that close to one so perhaps it was just a regular size. It chattered away genuflecting the air with its grizzly-like claws (remember fisherman exaggerate) and chattering away, it’s jaws moving up and down.
He may not have screamed at that exact moment. That there was a scream soon enough was not in doubt as he unwound his twisted torso, his unfeeling feet still holding firm in the sandy bottom, and his upper half plunging into the deep pool. It was probably the fall into the water that provoked the scream, but the cold water entering his waders might have contributed, as did the recognition that his iPhone and electronic car key were in the top of the submersed waders. When he managed to stand, rod still in hand, the raccoon had retreated the required six feet under the current Covid 19 restrictions, was no longer clicking its sounds, and had moved onto a path headed upstream.
He grabbed a rock, just in case, and edged to the bank to head back to his car. The iPhone lit up and the droplets of water on his car’s smart-key looked minimal enough, giving him some comfort. On his mind was gratitude because if the iPhone was damaged there was no Apple Store open to fix it and if the keys had been electrocuted, no way to start the car or phone, god forbid, for an Uber.
As he shivered his way up the path the raccoon, ambling slowly ahead, would turn, eye him and then move on. He kept his distance; whether the raccoon had Covid 19 or rabies seemed a toss up, but rabies and a bite would mean a trip to a hospital and that wasn’t going to happen in the midst of the pandemic. He held the rock and let the raccoon gain some distance before it got lost in the woods.
The lift on his wagon opened with a press of a button much to his relief. He undressed publicly, squeezed out his soaked clothes, and turned the heat way up on his damp drive home.
Oh, and he lost his flies.
Postscript. Raccoons active during the day might not have rabies. New mothers with kits will venture out to feed or drink. Soaked waders should be turned inside out to allow them to dry.