The small imitation bug landed softly on the calm surface, and I watched as the rings from its slight splash circled outward noiselessly.The small imitation bug landed softly on the calm surface, and I watched as the rings from its slight splash circled outward noiselessly. When they had almost ceased, I tugged gently on the line, making the bug dance jerkily, as if struggling to free itself from the surface film. There was a beaver swimming across the lake to my left, his brown head and upper body hidden from time to time by the early morning mist as it rose from the warming water. I saw the fish long before he reached the top of the water, zooming up vertically beneath the lure as if shot from a cannon. He broke the surface violently, his mouth wide open, enhaling the bug and flipping and twisting his body in the air before plunging back into the depths. When he had disappeared from view I gathered in the slack in the fly line, and holding it tightly against the rod with my forefinger, snapped my wrist upward, setting the hook in the jaw of the unsuspecting fish. It had not appeared to be an especially large fish, but as he turned and swam toward the middle of the lake the rod was pulled around by the force of his escape and the line blistered my finger as it was torn from the reel. His fight was challenging and exciting, but in the end no match for the skills of his captor. As I removed the hook and held him by his lower lip I was amazed at the power he had shown in his small body and the fight he had put up. |