As the sun starts to set Johannes Bulfin leaves for the river in search of Croneen. Did he catch one? Read on
“‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all”, this famous quote by Alfred, Lord Tennyson is one that I could never quite decide if I agreed with or not. That was until last night.
Summer has come and it brings with it the highlight of my fly fishing season; the “Croneen”. This is a local name for a lake trout that runs the local rivers to spawn. They range in weight from one to five pounds! Usually the first floods of summer bring the fish up river, this year however the rivers are showing their bones, the water is low and clear as a vodka shot! Regardless the fish have pushed their way up into the rivers and are driving the local anglers silly! Being able to see shoals of big trout hanging underneath the trees and in deep holes would drive the most self-controlled of us to distraction.
The “Croneen” is very much like a sea trout, in both appearance and behaviour. Basically skittish silver torpedos of muscle. They can be caught during the day but fly fishing at night is the pinnacle of fly fishing for me. This is a story of my first encounter, for this year, with this enchanting and captivating fish. I fool myself if I think I’m the one who is doing the catching; this fish has hooked me for life and won’t release me!!
“I’ll only be gone for a couple of hours”. It was a lie. Is it a lie though if the other party already knows from the beginning that it isn't true? The sun was spilling vibrant red and orange all over the western edges of the sky as I arrived at the river. I pulled on my waders, threaded the line through the rod rings, tied on a Peter Ross. I checked my bag. I was disappointed to see I’d forgotten my camera.
I took a few casts and worked my way down through a riffle towards the head of the pool. There was still plenty of light, it was too early to be fishing in all honesty. As my fly swung across the current a flash of silver and heart stopping wrench! I was in!!! I couldn't believe it! Five minutes into my first session and I was locked into a Croneen! My heart was dancing and I strained to catch a glimpse of the fish as eagerly as reuniting lovers strain for a glimpse of each other in the arrivals hall. There she was, maybe a pound and a half. Come on, easy now. The trout was tiring now and I began to believe I would actually land her. Then a vicious head-shake right on the surface and the line went limp, I swear she winked at me as she headed back to the depths of the pool with a swish of her tail. I sank to haunches and held my head in my hands. I had no words. No curses, not a sound, just that sinking feeling of disbelief that was overwhelming.
I fished on numbly, replaying the entire scenario over and over again. What could I have done differently, was it my fault? Why did she have to leave me like that? Every knot had held and the hook was sharp. It just wasn't meant to be, evidently. The first glimpse of silver was burning itself into my memory banks. I felt I had gotten to know the fish but was denied the chance to say “I’ll put you back because you are worth more than you know to me”. Instead I was now just a b*****d who pulled a hook into her, at least that's how she saw it.
Night had descended by now, a few little brown trout had tried to console me but it was futile. The river reflected the sky’s inky glow. I was back in the game now though, I was fishing with purpose and all my senses were on high alert again. Bats wheeled and dived over the river. Something rustled in the grass on the opposite bank.
The rod in my hand buckled, the line straightened in a millisecond and a Croneen rocketed out of the water. It happened so fast but I can still see the fish as vividly as a photograph, it was a deep fish and long too. It shook droplets from its glistening body as it seemed to swim through the air. By the time it hit the water with a crash that sounded thunderous in the still evening air my line was slack again. “NO!! No, no, no, no”. I punched the ground in frustration, where a thistle gleefully embedded an arsenal of spikes into my fist. I sucked at my fist and breathed deeply; bit my finger hard to hold back a tirade of frustration and disappointment that was building inside me. It had been a stunning fish, easily my best for many years! But she wouldn't come to me either.
I imagine these two fish to have been like lovers or relationships. One I got to know, we were together for a while but parted ways before the time was right. The other was far too brief but all the more spectacular for it, leaving behind her a string of “What ifs?”. A moment of sheer magic that wasn't to be repeated. The second one hurt more, not just because of the thistle either; that fish was perfect. Even a salmon would have humbly acknowledged her grace and beauty.
So would I rather have fished the evening without a touch, without ever seeing those fish and knowing that they are there? Would I rather have fished in blissful ignorance of those feelings of elation and dejection, of euphoria and torment? Absolutely not!!
Therefore I conclude that my dear Lord Tennyson your words and thoughts have been tried and tested and have been found to be indeed true. It is better to have loved and lost than to have never known at all.
Be sure to take a look at Johannes excellent blog Road to Water