Peter was off with Jim Serio fishing the Salmon River. Gib was stuck in a business negotiation and couldn’t shake free. Mauro was down in Washington selling some of his paintings and Josh wasn’t due in for a week. I would not be sharing the water with any of my usual fishing partners this day, but the one thing I did know for certain was that I’d be fishing.

This is the time of year when something primal awakens in me. For years, the early fall made me think about upland bird hunting and the patches of barberries along the brook. There was always the chance to have a grouse explode nearby at the least expected time. Tom Pazzalia once whimsically remarked, “By the time I saw it, it was out of sight.” Every bird hunter knows exactly what Tom meant. Ol’ John Vogt used to say, “If you can take one bird or two out of 10 flushes, you are doing just fine.” John was a better shot than I ever was, better than most in fact. Maybe I’d walk through the sweet ferns to an old bow stand and see if that nearby crab apple was being frequented by whitetails.

The screams of the jays are different in the fall. Their cries and those of the overhead hawk seem more pronounced. Is it just that the clutter of the summer has subsided and now we hear, see and smell things better? The low passing eagle is a snowier white and a blacker black. What is it with the light this time of year? Have you too noticed the amazing sunsets lately?

These days I am drawn to the water, not the fields or the woods. My mind is fixed on the thick-bodied rainbows that sip tiny midges, ants and other small insects, size 18 or 20, like a lady with a teacup, pinky extended—sips so delicate that they can hardly be detected. The trout are there though. I sense them cruising about. They move together, two or three or four of them. Sometimes it’s just one lone wolf. He’s the one I really want. I pack the truck and am gone.

As I drive upriver, there’s no one to discuss tactics with, no radio or music—just the hum of the road and focused thoughts—my line, my leader, my knots. I’ll tie some 4x tippet on my leader, then a small piece of 5x, then another two-foot piece of #6 with one tag of the double surgeon’s knot left at three inches for a #18 Griffith’s Gnat and a #18 Rusty Spinner for my end fly. You guys want to sip; well here are some tidbits to sip on.

Launching the canoe is not as easy as it used to be, but before long I am moving smoothly upriver. The pull of the paddle feels good. The canoe is solid and steady. I see the current braid and the bubble line in it. I don’t get too close, but I stare at it and into it for telltale signs. There’s a sip, a ring so subtle that if you dropped a pea into the water from a foot up it’d make a bigger circle.

I lower the anchor swiftly so not to lose my position, but at the last moment, I check the line’s descent and settle the weight on the river bed like it’s a piece of valuable crystal, so softly that it wouldn’t break and without sound or vibration. I am in place.

They tend to cruise here so I just watch. I won’t blind cast. My fly line is stripped out and at my feet. I must wait for risers. The fly is in my hand, and 20 feet of leader and fly line are out of the rod tip. I watch. The risers come, and I cast and mend and escort my flies on a drag-free float through the zone. No takers… another rise… cast and repeat. Then wait and watch some more. Mrs. Eagle glides closely by, and I tell myself the sight of her was worth the trip although I don’t really believe it. I pray there will be more to this adventure.

I see a rise form different from the others, a bit more greedy. I can see the top of his head above the surface as he eats. This is the one. He is cruising upriver toward me, rising every 30 seconds. I track the course he is on. Now is the time. My flies land six feet above him on the correct line. A moment later he takes. I lift my tip swiftly but softly. I feel three heavy head shakes, then the line clears off the canoe bottom and he is on the reel. The reel makes a heavenly sound. It purrs. I hold the rod very softly, as thin 6x tippet won’t withstand sharp play. I try to enjoy the fish, but mostly I pray like hell he doesn’t get off. I try to coax him in, using gentleness rather than force, adjusting the points of pressure to keep him off balance, confused. I am always amazed when my prayers are answered and he is in my net. Only the rim of the net is above water. The fish calms. The last light is low, but I can plainly see that he is a fine fish. The Rusty Spinner is in the left corner of his mouth and easily comes out in my fingers. I reach under his belly and lightly hold his long pectoral fin between my fingers. I draw the net from out from under him. He is heavy but weightless. I will wait ‘til he determines to leave on his own. His gills slow to a more regular pace. With a soft kick of his tail he slides out of my hand and angles in a glide toward the bottom and out of sight.

I really enjoy fishing with others, but there’s something magical about fishing alone. And I like that there is no one to say, “You really drive all that way for one fish?”

(E-mail me at andyboyar@gmail.com for comments and upcoming events.)