Dead Angler by Victoria Houston

Author:Victoria Houston [ Houston, Victoria]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: F&W Media, Inc.
Published: 2011-08-23T04:00:00+00:00

seventeen

Osborne stood, fly-rod motionless in his right hand, entranced by the sight of Police Chief Lewelleyn Ferris dancing in the moonlight. Body and fly-rod arcing forward and backward in rhythmic patterns, fly-line shooting against the night sky with consummate grace.

Her movements were soundless against the murmuring rush of the river, making it easy for him to concentrate on every swoop of arm and rod. Rod tip down, she plucked the dry fly from the surface as delicately as if it dangled from a spider’s thread, leaving not a whisper of movement to spook a trout. Right arm whipping a series of false casts high in the air, she rocked on her feet like a jazz dancer: from back to front, toe to toe. Then both arms pulled in graceful opposition, executing a double haul that Osborne swore shot the line a solid seventy feet. He’d never fished with anyone, male or female, who could shoot that far.

Jeez! Here he was still working to develop a decent backcast, much less a double haul. How on earth did that woman learn to cast like that? And she made it look so easy. He planned to tell Ray after fishing with Lew tonight that she is the one reason he is willing to tackle this sport one more time—she is the first fly-fisherman he knows who makes a deliberate effort to keep her fishing free of technical frustrations.

“Lewelleyn’s Rule #1,” she had said earlier when he pulled two full boxes of wet and dry flies from his vest, “never, ever carry more than five flies.” So he set one box aside and slipped the other into the front pocket of his fishing vest even though it held a dozen flies. Lew had raised a critical eyebrow. Seven too many.

“Lew,” he’d complained, “it’s tough to choose. Whatever I don’t take will be the one I need.”

And so, together, they had sorted quickly through his box to select one Royal Wulff, two tiny Blue-Winged Olives on #22 and #24 hooks respectively, a Pale Morning Dun, and an outrageous Salmon Stone Fly. The latter pushed on him by Lew who said: “You just never know what you’ll see out there, Doc. Ralph laughs at my Salmon Stone Fly, but I’ve caught many fine trout on this little lover. Tied it myself,” she said with pride, grinning as she hooked one of the fluffy buggers onto his lambswool pad, then patted his shoulder to velcro down the khaki safety flap.

Critical though she might be of his fly selection, Lew had made no comments on his casting, which he knew to be marginal at best. Tonight, however, after watching him lay down a few roll casts, she pointed to a bubbling seam less than 15 inches from the bank.

“Lewellyn’s Rule #2,” she said, “see the riffle—cast the cover.”

“Good point,” he responded. He knew she was right. Every good trout fisherman knows the biggest, the brightest, the wisest trout lie in the deep sheltered pools, safe from eagles, otters, and other predators.

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