Regrettably for the deer, they taste good, and I should be getting 1.2-2.2 grams per kilo of protein per day... Tough combo, for them.
"I fish because I love to; because I love the environs where trout are found, which are invariably beautiful, and I hate the environs where crowds of people are found, which are invariably ugly; because of all the television commercials, cocktail parties, and assorted social posturing I thus escape; because, in a world where most men seem to spend their lives doing things they hate, my fishing is at once an endless source of delight and an act of small rebellion; because trout do not lie or cheat and cannot be bought or bribed or impressed by power, but respond only to quietude and humility and endless patience; because I suspect that men are going along this way for the last time, and I for one don't want to waste the trip; because mercifully there are no telephones on trout waters; because only in the woods can I find solitude without loneliness; because bourbon out of an old tin cup always tastes better out there; because maybe one day I will catch a mermaid; and, finally, not because I regard fishing as being so terribly important but because I suspect that so many of the other concerns of men are equally unimportant -- and not nearly so much fun."
Robert Traver
"We The Jury" Copyright 2002
By Dana Charbonneau
Okay, technically I was guilty. I killed the SOB. But it wasn't murder, see? The guy had it coming.
It happened on a gorgeous June morning, on the C&R stretch of the Deerfield River. There was a hatch of little tan caddis coming off, and for a change I had the right fly in my vest. Better yet, I had two dozen. Last time out I had one lousy fly to match the hatch, and a big rainbow had ripped it off my tippet. The bastard.
Today I had it wired, and the river was rewarding me. Then I heard a faint ringing. Tinnitus? As a kid I'd pulled skeet at the local rod & gun club, and never worn ear protection. Back then it was considered sissified. Now I was half deaf and sometimes heard phones ringing where there weren't any. I shrugged it off and kept fishing. Another rainbow came to the net and was released.
The ringing came back, louder. I turned around and saw another angler downstream of me, who tucked his rod under his arm, reached into his vest and pulled out one of those cellular phones. What the hell... I turned back and devoted my attention to a midstream boulder, where I'd just seen a rise. I laid out a good cast and dropped the caddis three feet upstream of the lie. Wham! And I was on to a good fish, bigger than any I'd hooked today. Heck, Bigger than any I'd gotten this year. I was finally able to turn him in the slower water, and brought him to the net.
"Nice fish," came a voice behind me. "What did he take?"
I was startled, then turned around. It was the phone guy. I looked closer. Typical yuppie, neon hat, executive haircut. I half expected wingtip wading shoes. His vest reeked of newness. Were those creases? Oh well, you've got to be polite.
"Tan caddis, size 20, with a synthetic wing," I replied. Might as well get a newbie into a few fish.
"Can I see that?" he asked.
"Sure." I held it up for him.
"Geez, that's small! Where did you buy those?"
I bristled momentarily, since I haven't bought a fly in eight years. Materials by the bushel, yeah, and the old lady bitching about the cost when she ain't bitching about the mess, but no flies. Not that he could relate to that. He'd never tie a fly, bet on it. And his wife drove an Accura if she didn't drive a Beemer.
"I tie these myself," I answered. "You have any 7x tippet? Take a couple of these, use 3 feet of tippet, and watch out for drag. These fish don't go for skittered flies."
? "Wow, thanks. Umm, what's a skittered fly? I never heard of it."
"Skittering is when you deliberately drag a caddis across the surface. Sometimes it gets 'em to hit, but these fish are too educated, and they're fussy about presentation."
"I see. Well, thank you." With that he walked away. I resumed fishing, getting a few more small fish, then decided to head back to the truck for a sandwich and a cold beer. I crossed the shallows to the old railroad bed. Heading downstream it occurred to me that I needed to take a leak, so I shrugged off the vest and lowered the waders. Then I heard the ringing again. I peered through the brush to the water and spotted the phone guy again.
"Dave here. Yeah, Jim, I've gotten three just in the last ten minutes! Fantastic! Some old guy gave me a couple flies, tan caddis, size 20. They were pretty ratty looking, but I had a dozen good ones in my vest, so that's what I switched to. What? Oh, I threw 'em out. Hey, try that caddis sub-emerger in size 18. Let me know how it works out. Yeah, I'll call you back in fifteen. Lunch? Sure, I've got some brie in the cooler, and a nice Riesling chilling. Catch ya."
Well, I hitched up my waders, ambled back upstream around the bend, and re-entered the water. I sidled up to him.
"Hi again," I started in.
"Oh, hi! Say, those caddis are just the ticket. I've gotten four good ones on them already."
"That's nice," I replied. Just then his phone rang. As he turned to answer, I pulled a rock out of my vest pocket and brained him. He slumped into the water, the current taking him slowly downstream. I headed up to the next pool, switched to a larva pattern, and managed to catch a beautiful brownie.
Of course, there was a witness, and I'd been hauled off to jail. All the facts came out in the course of the trial. Now the prosecuting DA was having a field day.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, not only did Mister Clark coldly and brutally murder the victim, but after he committed this heinous crime, he returned to the river and, with calm deliberation, resumed his trout fishing as though nothing had occurred. This cold-blooded disregard for the life of a fellow human can only merit the most severe punishment. I ask you to consider this when you review the evidence, and find Mister Clark guilty of murder! Thank you."
My attorney stepped up. Per my instructions, he wordlessly handed each juror a copy of Robert Traver's "Testament Of A Fisherman." My only hope lay in those immortal words. "I fish... because mercifully there are no telephones on trout streams."
The jury deliberated for twenty minutes and returned a verdict of "Not Guilty." Somewhere above the courtroom, the Honorable John Voelker, Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of Appeals of Michigan, smiled.
(Historical Note: "Robert Traver" was the pen name of the late John Voelker, former attorney, District Attorney, and Judge. Among his works were the books 'Trout Madness,' 'Trout Magic,' and the novel 'Anatomy of a Murder,' which was made into an Academy Award-winning movie.)
