I kept my routine of hiking into the creek so long as the water was high and the creek could conceal fish. There were a couple of slow evenings; and, often the highlight was the hike back out seeing deer emerging from the cattails for a night of nibbling fresh green sedge shoots. One time, I enjoying a nice full moon on the hike out and the sound of an owl hooting along the marsh. But no carp. Still, I kept going. I thought, "Well, it sure is relaxing... and I can always use the casting practice... and it's a good hike.... need the exercise."
And then the next time I visited the creek it happened. Still no carp in the pool but there were swirls and rises along the margins. On occasion, some minnows would skip out of the water in a desperate attempt to evade a predator and live another moment. Something is in here. So, I tied on a large flashy black rubber-legged critter and carefully cast along the margins. The fly hit the water and I began stripping it in using short erratic strips. About five feet into it and the fly stopped. I strip-striked. Yep, fish. Then, I set the hook. "What the hell do I have?" The fish stayed deep and swam from the margins to the middle of the pool. Slow and deliberate. It pulled hard. Very hard. Three feet in.... three feet back out. It swam in circles. It stayed deep. It would almost come up and then there would be a boil on the surface and it would go back down. The pool was in the shadows and looked like motor oil, black and slick. The fish surged back and forth, nothing flashy, but pulling hard all the time. It had no quit. Constant, deliberate, motion. Defiant. This wasn't a carp. It wasn't a pike. Definitely not a bass. Finally, the black surface was pierced by a white splash and the fish had finally come up and shown itself. Still, what is it? It had fought hard. This will be interesting.
After some coaxing, the fish finally turned on its side splashing once in a while. It mostly had conceded. And the splashes were more obligatory than defiance--so no one would think it was a quitter. I walked to the bank, raised my fly rod as high as I could, steered it in, and slipped my hand under its belly. It was tall and as I lifted it out of the water it rolled over on its side in my hand, its back propped against the inside of my forearm to hold it upright. Draped, head and tail still in the water. I looked at it puzzled and impressed. Like "Who are you?" I lifted the fish out of the water, it's gills pumping and water dripping off its chin. It's eye looking down back at the water. I walked a few steps back with it to a nice patch of grass. Here, I could set the fish down and admire it quickly before putting it back. It was a freshwater drum. An impressive one. Nothing huge like they can get. Not a thirty pounder. But, it was over 20 inches by just a bit. It's sides were silver and its head a pearly color. It's eyes looked droopy like it hadn't gotten enough sleep. But, it's form was reminiscent of a permit. I smiled. A new one. I looked around thinking there might be someone standing there to comment. No one. Still wearing a smile, I cradled the fish, and walked it back creekside. I lowered down to the water, gently dunked the fish, and brought it back up to take a last look. Submerging the fish like that refreshed it. It's color looked better. It was happy. Water was dripping off it. Then, I lowered it into the water again. I held it there. Gills pumping. It twitched. I could feel the muscles tense on its tall back. The tail pumped slowly side to side. And it swam deliberately out of my hands and into the dark water.
