LEARNING TO ANGLE.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 20022, 12 February 1927, Page 18

LEARNING TO ANGLE.

THE INEXPLICABLE .FISHERMAN. Written for the Otago Daily Times. By F. M. The other Hay a friend asked mo if I know anything about angling, and I shook my head, whereupon lie oil'ered lo initiate me into the gentle art. It was here that I made my one big mistake, I accepted his oiler. It was not for me to know that mine was not the soul of the angler: it was imt for mo to coax the wily trout from his lair in tile purling brook. The trouble was that the trout was far wilier than I was. and I did not know it. Wherefore I bought me a license and accompanied my enthusiastic friend on his fish-catching expedition. 'those last throe words are said in a sneering lone—a tone of disillusionment that can r only from the depths of hitler e-m . and the knowledge of finline r.;d dim, final and irrevocable. Wc set out early in the morning, with the sun peering over the eastern hills and smiling encouragement upon us, and v> e journeyed in our Ford away into the lonely places whore tin- b.g 'mi- arm There we unpacked. I had brought a handsomely varnished fly rod, a creel n gatf, and all file equipment I was (old was necessary, and these I laid out beside rnc. 'I here was a frantic minute while I searched desperately for my reel, and just as the terrible conviction that I had, in accordance with the comic paper traditions, left it at home, came upon me, my companion dug it out of his pocket and handed it over to me. I withered him with a look. Having been shown the previous night the art of sotting up n rod and affixing the cast and the flies I elected to do my own work. Had my companion been less keen to get to work, he might have warned me, but he was, I could see, champing at the hit and looking anxiously at _ the river. There was an insane light in his eye. “Everything 0.K.?” he asked at last. "Evcrytthing 0.K.,” I repeated in confirmation. ‘■Right; I’ll leave you to it. You know what to do. I’ve shown you how to cast, and you know how to fix the flies. Remember to hold the point of your rod up. if you hook one, and keep your head. Don’t forget your gaff. I’D walk up half a mile or so, and you can fish that rapid, working upstream all the time. I’ll come and see how you’re getting .on after a while. Gosh, look at ’em rising. Everything set? Right. STong.” And he left mo to it, I waited till he got out of sight, and then I prepared to cast. Unhappily, the long, thin, silly-looking line had got badly tangled, and when I started to unravel it it got worse. I kicked it furiously and it coiled round my leg and one of the Hies took a bit out of my ear and a thin tiicklo of blood started to flow down my cheek. I wondered if I would get tetanus. Ten minutes later I cleared up the mess, and with a happy sigh I prepared to cast. I cast. Simultaneously my hat flew from my head and shot into the water 30 feet away. Talkativcly, 1 reeled in, retrieved my hat, and jumped on if. I prayed to all the gods who presided over anglers to smile upon mo, and once again I cast. The manoeuvre was a glorious success, and my flies settled gracefully on the water and drifted into the rapids. Gradually working upstream restored my confidence, and 1 began to feel more like an angler.- This, I thought, was the life. Suddenly the lino tautened and, remembering instructions, 1 pointed the tip of my rod upwards while my heart slowly settled back into its customary position and started knocking violently, as if wanting to get out and see the fun. But, after two minutes had passed, I began to realise that something was wrong. The weight was too dead! " H’m,” I thought, “ snagged." I was right. But I managed to work loose from the submerged log, and after fishing ateadily for 25 minutes I reeled in to sec if there would be any better luck in changing my flies. It was then that I noticed that my cast was innocent of flies. It was too much. I sat down on the bank of the river, and to the trees and the stream, and the little birds and the clouds that drifted solemnly by, 1 addressed myself in measured terms. I told them all about fishing, and I told them what I thought of the fish and their forefathers, and I expressed the opinion that Izaak Walton was either a hypocrite, a practical joker, or a madman. I was just on the point of packing up and searching for my companion when a big fish rose close by. Then another rose, and another. They commenced rising everywhere. I resumed my fishing in high hopes, but somehow every time I dropped my flies over the nose of a trout and lot them dangle there the fish would sheer away as if nauseated at the sight. I could not help thinking that they had smelt a rat, so to speak, I reeled in again, and noticed that round my flies was a quantity of nasty messy green weed that trailed along like the tail of a comet. I removed it, and tried again. Suddenly I felt a tug, and the point of my rod quivered ecstatically. I did likewise. I remembered all my instructions and as the fish (I was sure it was at least three pounds) weakened I wound in, and beached him. He was a little one. As I bent down to see what fly had done the deadly work I noticed, to my mortification, that I had not angled him, but had fouled him through the tail. I felt like a man who had shot a sitting pheasant. ■then it began to rain—a steady, soaking rain winch fell straight and relentlessly. It got down my neck, it filled the dents in my hat so that when I bent my head an icy stream would fall on to my hands, and gradually my morale weakened. I packed up and sot out in search of my companion. I found him two miles up the river. He was soaked to the skin, but I don’t think he had noticed that it was raining. “What luck?’’ he called out cheerily. “Little one I had to throw back.” “Good. There’s one under this bank I’ve been after for the last 10 minutes. Ho rose to me, once and I reckon IT} get him yet.” Like a half-drowned fowl, shiverum with cold, I stood under a tree and watched him, The fire of enthusiasm burned like an unquenchable flame in his eye, and, with head slightlv forward, he fished and fished and fished. And all the time the rain fell. Finally, he gave it tin and it was then that ho noticed the rain. “Ye gods, the rain’s coining down some, isn’t it?” ho observed. “Yes I had noticed that three-quarters of an hour ago,” I told him reproachfully. “Oh well, a follow doesn’t notice these things when ho gets interested in fishing,” ho said. “It grows on you.” “Docs it?” 1 said disheliovingly. “Yes,” he went on. “Do vou know, I had a beauty on Tong in that rapid under the willows. Must have been a fourpeunder, but ho got round a snag and was gone in a flash. They’re rising though. Four lose to rny fly this afternoon, but they wtren’t taking properly. Oh, well, belter luck next time.” Wo commenced our return journey, and after ray mentor had tried a few casts into every likely-looking pool wo passed wo got hack to the Ford and packed up. There was a happy smile on his face. He had had a groat lime, as he put it, and was determined to come back at the next, opportunity and got that big one under the willow. Would I care to come? I said I had a garden to dig. And so we went home. Ito ponder on the soul of the fisherman, he to dream of catching the big one ’..hat got awn- and to tell other anglers the story of how it got away.