Growing Gills by David Joy

Author:David Joy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography, Fishing
ISBN: 978-0-914875-61-1
Publisher: Bright Mountain Books, Inc.
Published: 2012-04-12T04:00:00+00:00

“What in me is dark, illumine…”

My anticipation of leaving was clear as I rocked uneasily on the couch, sped through television channels, and knocked my knees together. Sara knew it but continued to make me wait. With the kitchen light reflecting against her jade eyes, she looked at me and smiled to offer some comfort, but I was antsy anyway.

“You ready?” I asked, sitting up to the edge of the couch, my eagerness evident in the loaded springs of my legs. I was a wad of stored energy, ready to explode at any moment.

“You said it wouldn’t be worth fishing till eleven and it’s only nine forty-five.” Sara paced the hazy kitchen as she grabbed supplies to clean the stovetop, the smell of pork chops still hanging on the smoke of dinner. She was already dressed to go: ripped jeans, a gray hooded sweatshirt, and a windbreaker. Her dark hair was pulled tight into a ponytail. She had no reason to wait besides the pure enjoyment of watching me squirm.

“Yeah, but it takes thirty minutes to get there,” I pleaded.

“Then we’ll leave at ten thirty.”

“How about ten o’clock?”

“Ten fifteen.”

“Fine.” She drove a hard bargain.

I looked at the rods resting against the armchair to my left and thought I’d better check the knots. I’d checked them at least three times already, but the urge to be on the water had my mind stuck on one track. I’d tied a Rooster Tail, an in-line spinnerbait that Sara had picked (real girly: black with sparkles along the shaft) from the rows of tackle at Walmart, onto the 6-pound monofilament of a spinning rod. The scratched reel held firm in the brass seat of my grandmother’s rod, a rod with novels buried in the grip before I’d ever touched it, a rod whose story I continued with each cast, and now Sara would add her tale. She was unaware of the significance, but my letting her use that rod was a sure sign of how much I loved her.

I checked the knot on the Rooster Tail. Tight. Then I ran the line through my fingers checking for any nicks. Flawless. The rod was ready to fish.

A 7-weight fly rod rested across the arms of the chair, the perfect balance of rod and reel keeping it stable. I’d yet to fish this rod, an 81⁄2-foot, 7-weight with a jet black Ross Rhythm held firm in the rosewood reel seat. I’d bought the setup specifically to night-fish for trout. I’d read the words of George Harvey, Joe Humphreys, and James Bashline on night-fishing for big trout, specifically browns, and built my rod to match the masters’.

*****

Traditionally night-fishing for trout has been a northern habit, with the nighttime roots buried in the cold currents of Pennsylvania. Bashline’s prose bragged of monster trout ripping drag to the backing, and the photograph of Joe Humphreys’s 1978 Pennsylvania record brown, a gargantuan fifteen-pounder, spoke more than any number of words. The facts were simple: the biggest trout fed at night, and although the game was harder in the cloak of darkness, I wanted my shot.

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