Carp
Diem
By Dean Ansell
Peering through tinted water
I see a tail curl ever so gently in the current, it's owner seems
detached as I strain to penetrate the depths of the pool. Reeds
at the far side, above the ghostly tail, quiver at a different
tempo to those around it as an unwelcome guest disturbs it's
roots in search of unseen morsels.
Lowering to my knees, I work
out a few feet of fly line and hold the small, furry nymph between
two fingertips, reading the current to gauge the best target
area. My eyes locked on the quarry, I draw back on the nymph
causing a bow in my fly rod with enough power to propel the unsuspecting
nymph into battle.
As I release the fly, time slows
down and the whole scene unfolds over what feels like hours.
The faint 'plop' of the lightly weighted Binni Bronze sees the
tail cease it's mesmerizing wave as the fish turns to investigate
the cause of the disturbance.
Hovering with seamless effort,
the shape of the fish materializes from the darker water and
it's true size is revealed. A tense stand off ensues as the hunter
stares with uncertainty at the hunted before it. My hand twitches
the fly with the slightest movement and the fish responds by
drawing in the offering with reckless abandon.
Raising the rod tip changes the
mood of the scene as my quarry erupts in a shower of water, instantly
charging up the pool as it struggles to realize what went wrong.
Thankful for not having meters
of line stripped out onto the grass, I have the fish immediately
on the reel, yet by no means under control. Line begins to pour
off the little Hardy giving a protest I had not heard for some
time as my fish seemingly gains strength with every beat of it's
strong tail.
Reaching the end of the pool
the fish stops, faced with the prospect of attempting a charge
up an inch deep rivulet. Realizing what is about to happen I
raise the rod and dash for the only feasible exit from the pool
as the fish does the same.
Charging through mud and reed,
I reach my objective as the fish passes through the narrow channel
that drains the pool, simultaneously managing to wrap tippet
around an unseen tree root. Destined not to bow down, arms are
plunged, fingers are scraped, shins are barked as I waste valuable
minutes in an attempt to free the dangerously taut mono.
I am astounded to find the fish
still fast to the end as I apply more side pressure than I previously
dared, desperately trying to coax the animal into the shallows
at my feet. Water is muddied as we both disturb the silty bottom,
the distance between us shrinking rapidly. Now in water barely
inches deep, the strong tail wrist has little effect in propelling
the fish away from his strange captor and he is dragged on his
side into my waiting hands.
A shaking thumb-grip lifts the
carp into the air, exposing his muscular bulk on a warrior like
frame, flanked by large golden scales. An awkward silence ensues
as we both lay still on he bank, breathing heavily. He knows
he is not going back, but from the eye glaring back at me I can
tell he knows he fought valiantly all the same.
