Remembering the Deep Water

There’s a lot that I don’t remember about what happened, and there’s a lot that I do remember.

I don’t remember what month or what year it was, but it wasn’t too long ago. Still, more and more I’m finding that ‘not too long ago,’ is actually longer ago than it seems, so maybe it was. It happened in that time that feels less long ago than it actually is.

I don’t remember which way the wind was blowing, or if it was blowing at all, but I know that we were on anchor, and where we’d anchored was very specific: on the edge of a dropoff. In front of us, the pond’s depths increased rapidly, perhaps exponentially and infinitely. The bottom of the pond, which we could see clearly beneath us and behind us, disappeared into and was taken over by blue-gray-black that represented deep water – a term we applied generally to areas of the pond where brook trout would take to when absence of clouds revealed high, bright, midday sun. 

So, it was also sunny.

I don’t remember whose boat it was and if it was the square stern canoe that typically accompanied us (or, that we accompanied?) on our fishing trips to such ponds, or if we’d borrowed a good friend’s flat bottom jon boat, but with three of us aboard – me and my parents – there wasn’t much room to move about. 

We’d returned to the boat after a short hike along the Appalachian Trail, which follows the pond’s northwest shoreline for a mile or so before striking back into, and continuing in the dense forest filled with timeless pine trees, many of which have well-worn handholds thanks to the hands of countless thru-hikers. I liked to place my hand in these holds as I hiked, and imagine how many others had done the same.

There’s a small, sandy beach on the shoreline of this brief intersection between pond and trail, a golden blip within an otherwise green (trees) and grey (boulders) outline of the water. The beach acts as an easy, obvious welcome mat for boaters looking to access the Trail and for hikers looking to access the water. We were the former.

Given that it was sunny and that we had been hiking, it could be that we had gone swimming, but I don’t remember. I also don’t remember if we’d always intended to angle following the hike or if something inspired us – a trout’s rise, perhaps, or an inclination from within – but, back in the boat, on anchor along the dropoff not far from the small, sandy beach, I made a cast from the bow.

The fly landed in the deep water and slowly, surely began to sink. I waited while it did, my rod tip pointed in its general direction, but my attention turned back to the boat and my parents. I don’t remember why I said this, but I said, “Your turn, Dad. Let’s switch spots and you fish for a while.” 

He agreed, and we began a careful, inside-the-boat bow-to-stern exchange, all the while avoiding capsizing and stepping onto or falling into my dear, reclined, sunbathing mother. I don’t remember how long the maneuver took, but it must’ve been thirty seconds or more. 

Finally, my father stood in the bow and I sat in the stern. He started stripping in the fly that I’d casted some time ago and that was now at significant depth in the deep water. 

Not long into his retrieve, a brook trout took the fly. All three of us now stood and peered over the gunwale to observe the little beauty appear and arrive from the deep water. I don’t remember who netted it, but someone did. I don’t remember who released it, but someone did. Some lighthearted remarks were exchanged, I can only assume, though I don’t remember who said what.

Eventually, my father cast again into the deep water. While the fly sank, he started chuckling. 

“You made that last cast, didn’t you?” he said to me.

“I did,” I said.

“But I caught it.”

“Yes, you did.”

He chuckled again, and started retrieving his fly.

Some time later – I don’t remember how long – Dad and I decided to swap spots again, and we reversed the careful, inside-the-boat bow-to-stern exchange once again. But before doing so, to clear the line, my father cast the fly into the deep water. The fly sank as we exchanged places in the boat.

Again standing in the bow, rod in my hand, my parents seated in the stern and amidships, I started to retrieve the fly which had sunk into the deep water. A brook trout took the fly. 

“Hey!” my father said, chuckling. “I made that cast!”

I don’t remember if we caught any more brook trout while on anchor on the dropoff in front of the small, sandy beach that afternoon. I don’t remember if we tried ‘the swap’ again or not, or if we tried ‘counting down,’ as some stillwater anglers suggest. 

I also don’t remember if these events were ever discussed – until recently, when they came flooding back to me while on the phone with my father. And, I don’t even remember what we were talking about that made me remember them!