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The Crossing By Robert Williamson |
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The Crossing was the name given to the place on the river where the willows and sagebrush had been cleared to allow Jezebell, the old tractor, access to the upper fields of wheat on Aldredge's farm. Aldredge's farm held a special fascination for the young men who were fortunate enough to explore its mysteries. Summers would have been a lot less fun had it not been for invitations from a boyhood friend to spend some time there. It was at this farm that I learned to shoot a .22 rifle with enough accuracy to hit a jack-rabbit running 35 miles an hour from 50 yards away. It was also the place to learn about deer, rattlesnakes and coyotes. The most enjoyable thing I learned there, however, was how to catch brown trout on grasshoppers. The creek was not large by most standards and not many people knew of its whereabouts — except for locals from town and others from nearby towns. It was rarely fished and I can remember fishing entire summers without ever seeing another soul. The small creek did, however, have large holes and holding areas beneath overhanging willows. The willows were so thick it was impossible to see through them. The water made its way down from springs higher up in the mountains and ran down through hills and flats covered with sage and juniper trees. The banks were almost always covered with willows, except for small openings just large enough for a small boy to stick his head and fishing pole through. Grasshoppers were the best bait. They were over-abundant in the wheat and grasses and sage. The best way to catch them was to throw a handful of sand at them or stun them with sticks. On the way to the first fishing spot I would stop occasionally to secure one more piece of bait. The best way to attach the hoppers to the hook was to thread the point of the hook through the thorax of the hopper and then follow the abdomen with the point until the hopper was turned upright along the hook shank. After securing the bait to the hook, it could be lowered into the water for its final fate. Fish could be caught with grasshoppers all along this stream except for one place: the Crossing. I don't know if fish like to sun themselves, but it sure seemed like it. There were always about 15 trout holding in the Crossing, but they were uncatchable. Every time I walked up to the Crossing, I would spook them and they would race upstream into the cover of the willows and deeper water. No matter how sneaky I was, I could not approach the Crossing without scaring the trout. I tried to sneak down through the willows from above and below the hole but never was able to get in position to make the cast. My shadow would fall upon the water or my movement would startle them. Sometimes, I felt I had finally gotten close enough without making any error in my approach, only to find them gone when I peered through the brush. It was like they had ESP. As I got older, the trips to the farm ceased. Many years had passed and I had advanced from a grasshopper fisherman to a fly fisherman using artificial grasshoppers and flies. A desire to catch a fish out of the Crossing drew me back to the area as an adult. Two and a half hours of driving and I found myself going up the small canyon road, weaving my way through a multitude of childhood memories. I parked along a dry creek bed and then leaped across a sagging barbed wire fence, then stared at the tractor tracks that led to the Crossing. As I started up the dirt road, I picked from my fly box my best grasshopper pattern and quickly threaded it on the leader. Standing way back and viewing the situation, I decided my only chance for success would be to lay on my stomach and cast the fly from about 20 feet out. I wanted to cast so that as the line straightened out, the leader and tippet would turn over gently and land on the water without much disturbance. False casting was almost impossible, but I managed to do it long enough to get the right amount of line out. The cast went as planned and I dropped the size 10 hopper at the head of the Crossing. Almost at the second the fly hit the water there was a splash and I was on to a fish. As I stood up to play the fish, I saw 10 or 12 other trout streak for safety as they always had. I knew I would not be able to raise another fish from the Crossing for some time but, somehow, the satisfaction of that one little brownie was enough to last forever. |
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