Down the Hatch

The Hatch

We parked off to the side of the highway, looking suspiciously like we’d slid off. But it was all part of the plan, to look as if we weren’t up to anything. Jumping the guard rail, we slid down the snowy bank like toy pieces in The Playful Penguin Race. This wasn’t going to be easy. In fact, in describing the descent Jay had quoted Crazy Horse, ”It is a good day to die!” And yet, still I said yes — even asked him, to take me down the hatch.

The hatch, a series of plunge pools on a gold feeder creek, claimed with makeshift tarp-tee-pees, American flags, and truck-bed camper homes, leading the way down to a stretch of water that is otherwise, unreachable. Sketchy during summertime and dangerous in winter. But we found a way, skirting on thatch of talus, goatheads and small pines.

Above freezing on a post-snow day, the trees dropped their holdings sporadically, sounding stalking movement in the woods. I caught myself on more than one occasion looking over my shoulder expecting to see a squirrel, or deer, or a little bird…something to justify my instinct. But as is often the case, snow silences by making its own noise. Deceiving you into believing its substance is more than just water. But perhaps that’s water’s prerogative, however she manifests. In hours, minutes even, she knows she can change and so she does. This is fitting, really, for deception is nature’s survival mechanism and she instills in all her children the ability to lie for life’s sake. Look at a brook trout’s back in water, a mule deer against winter’s hard woods, or a garter snake in a weedy garden. They’re there, but their very selves are telling you otherwise. Sometimes, you believe them; sometimes, you don’t.

Winter Rainbow

Rivers also carry their element’s trait. Moving one direction while eddying back another — they are a visible echo. Often we look at them speaking when really, we should be listening, waiting for them to answer themselves back. Of varied depth and pocket holes – wading into them brings thoughts that are just as hard to balance and often as deceptive.

But the river isn’t here to stay and so she can afford to not be truthful, no one will recognize her tomorrow; much like the trains whose tracks are so often built bordering her banks, she’s just passing through. Even so, she guides while not always staying on track. Her character forces focus on the limited time given to figure out her lay and lies, and so we have to learn to pay attention. Although sometimes the truth is very simple, I’m blasted cold, and that is all I can pay attention to presently.

But icicles drip and soon fall into pools, sounding the forms of rises which make me remember that I’m fishing. No, I wasn’t paying attention. ”Guess we don’t really have to be careful about spooking ‘em” Jay said as the trout held deep, seemingly unfazed at the ice harpoons being thrown by the overhanging cliff and at the sheet ice floating above — those simply, passing clouds of the season.

It’s winter, even if not by the calendar. The fishing is different — harder, and technical — and while it seems as though this would be more trying on nerves and patience, those seem to be currently and thankfully frozen.

Jay and I fish upstream just four or five pools, each catching a few rainbows, when a month ago we would have fished and caught double or even triple that. Everything is slowed down now — late morning starts let the water warm, and heavy nymph rigs are only given one false cast — more relaxed as if we and all nature have taken a few shots of whiskey and can’t feel the numbing of fingers and toes. Summer’s urgency past, with winter comes acceptance. And at the early last-light, acceptance comes that the day is done, the shots worn off, and we walk back up the hatch in silence.

Erin Block

Author - Erin Block is a librarian during the day, writer by night and a fly fisherman and fly tier on her days off. Erin and her dog Banjo roam the Colorado high country exploring alpine lakes in search of remote and beautiful trout as well as slogging through the leech-infested mudflats and warm water ponds in pursuit of carp and bass along the Front Range. She publishes her stories and poetry on her blog Mysteries Internal.