THE EVENING RISE.
HAVING recorded my heterodox views about May fly fishing, I fear I
shall run counter to the opinions of many if I venture to state my
ideas relative to the evening rise. For my part I find it, in the main,
vanity and vexation of spirit.
Doubtless, in the hot days of July and August, when rivers appear,
under sultry conditions, to be almost tenantless, when after, say, 3
p.m., you may watch for all you are worth without seeing a dimple or
a rise, it is some consolation to go home for a little rest and an
early meal, intending to avail yourself of the evening chances with
a possible brace or so of fish to save, maybe, coming in clean. Eyes
tired with the glare of the water are grateful for the rest, and with
the proverbial hope rising freely in the angler's bosom, you mentally
reckon up the big captures you are going to make in the short time
afforded by the evening rise.
Refreshed in mind and body, you regain your favourite spot at 7 or 7.30
p.m., and the evening seems to promise well. It does not look as if
those cruel mists would begin to rise at sundown; there is little or
no wind; the hatch of fly throughout the day has been insignificant;
surely there must be a good rise this evening, everything seems to
foreshadow it. You take up your station and watch the water carefully,
especially the one or two spots near the opposite bank that you know
full well ought to be occupied by good fish. A few spinners hatch out
and dance merrily about; the gnats hover purposely up and down; an
odd dun sails down ignored, as far as the fish are concerned, and at
length, freeing himself from the water, gains the bank side. Surely
that was a rising fish by the bank of rushes yonder? But the shadow of
the rushes thrown by the lowered sun prevents you from locating him
exactly. It was a floppy rise, probably caused by some small fish.
Something must be done, for the time is short; so, letting out your
line to the required length, you despatch your olive to sail down the
bank of rushes. No response. Another trial provokes a rise, and you are
fast in the fish; but, as anticipated, he proves to be a half-pounder,
and, handling him gently, after having removed the fly, which was
provokingly well fixed in his tongue, you carefully hold him in the
water until he has regained his wind and recovered from his exhaustion.
Whilst so engaged you hear a heavy splash to your right. Hastily
glancing up, you cannot locate that rise either, but it is something
that they are beginning. No sedges have appeared, so you retain your
olive. A good quiet mid-stream boil above you attracts your attention.
That fellow means business, anyhow. Your olive, however, though deftly
offered, sails over his position unnoticed and despised. You change
to a bigger fly, a 00 red quill; the light is still good. He refuses
that equally, and whilst you are doubting whether to change or no, up
he comes again. What is he taking? Some small fly, no doubt, but none
that you can see. Try him with a hare's ear. You change, and whilst
you are tying on the fly you hear a succession of floppy rises below
you. You somewhat undecidedly give the trout one more chance, but
half-heartedly, as you want to get down to those other fish--result, a
bad cast, effectually putting down our friend.
[Illustration: THE SEDGE HOUR.]
The light is beginning to go, so you re-change to your bigger red
quill and try your luck with those below you. Fly after fly, carefully
placed, cocked and floating, produces but little result, one pounder
succumbing. You see he is not a big one, and give him scant grace,
meaning to get him into the net as soon as possible, and so bring him
in half done. The net somewhat too hurriedly shown him produces an
effort on his part, and he has weeded you. You spike your rod and try
hand-lining; he does not seem to yield, and you are impatient, and
resume your rod. Something must go; you have no time to lose. Suddenly
with a wriggle he extricates himself from the weed, to your infinite
astonishment, and he is then soon brought to book. But many precious
minutes have been wasted; the fly has got itself fixed in one of the
knots in your landing net. Never mind, break it off; you must get to
sterner business. So you take some few more minutes in threading the
eye of a small, dark sedge fly, as the fish by now must be at work
upon the larger flies. Flop! flop! on the opposite side, under the
shadow of the reeds. See that your fly is dry and cocks well; keep out
of sight--an absolute essential in evening fishing--and go for that
uppermost fish. That was a good rise; was it at your fly? It is hard
to see by the waning light. Evidently not. Try him again. This time he
rises well, and you are fast in him; but you struck too heavily; he was
a good fish, and you have left your fly in him, bad luck to it!
This time you have to make use of a match to enable you to thread the
eye, but after some fumbling struggles you at last succeed. One more
try. Pity you had not put on a somewhat stouter cast, but it is too
late now. You must be a bit more gentle with them; a slight turn of the
wrist is all you want. There is a good rise, just beyond mid-stream,
and a good cast just four inches above the rise. You can see your fly,
and also the neb of a good trout as he breaks the water to suck him in.
Now gently does it! He is hooked, and goes careering up stream to the
tune of the song of the reel. Steady him now; don't let him get into
the rushes. The light is fast going, and you are inclined to hurry him.
Better be cautious; his tail looked broad as he turned over that time;
he is fat and in lusty condition, and has no intention of surrendering
his life without a good struggle. Don't show him the net; that last run
must have settled him; he flops on the surface; he is gently led into
the mouth of the net, and is yours. Not so big as you fancied, by any
means; might be 1½ lb.; you put him down as well over 2 lb. He is well
hooked, and after taking the fly from his mouth you grip him well and
give his head a good hard tap against the handle of your landing net;
in so doing he slips from your grasp and nearly flops into the river.
Hurriedly you put yourself between him and the water and get hold of
him, making sure of him this time, and he goes into your bag. Is there
still light for one more? Hardly, and it is no pleasure when you cannot
see your fly.
You take up your rod again, and pass your hand down the line and cast.
Where is that fly? Caught up somewhere in your struggles with the
trout. It is engagingly fixed in your coat, about the small of your
back. So you lay your rod down again, take off your coat, and extricate
your fly with your knife at the cost of some of the cloth of your coat.
Pack up your things and trudge home somewhat annoyed with yourself
and thinking of the opportunities you had lost, and determining next
evening to have some points of gut attached to suitable flies in your
cap, ready for the fray--no more threading eyes under such adverse
conditions for you.
Next evening you repair to the place where you know the big trout
lie and are sure to rise well. Fully equipped in every detail, and
determined not to be induced to hurry, but to take things quietly and
composedly, you reach your station. What is that in the meadow over
there? A mist, by Jove! And soon the aforesaid mist begins to rise on
the water, most effectually stopping all hope of sport; so reluctantly
you leave the water side, a sadder and a wiser man, reflecting that the
evening rise is by no means the certainty you had fondly hoped.
Of course it is not always so. I recollect one evening on the Test,
when, after a hot day with scarce a semblance of a feeding fish, except
tailers, there was a grand evening rise, and on a big red quill I got
seven fish, almost from the same spot, in little over a quarter of an
hour; but these days are too infrequent to alter my stated opinion
that the evening rise is an overrated pleasure, and generally produces
vexation of spirit.
If you do fish in the evening hours, recollect that you must be just
as cautious in approaching fish as if it were broad daylight; that any
sign of drag will as effectually put a fish down as in the earlier
hours. Your fly must float and cock as jauntily as in the morning, but
you lose the chief charm of fishing the floating fly, namely, that
you cannot spot your fish in the water and watch their movements; you
have to cast at a rise, or where you imagine a rise to have been.
Use a small fly at first and then a little later change to a big red
quill, or, if the sedge flies are out, to a small dark sedge. You can
afford to have a point of stronger gut, for you will have often to
play a fish pretty hard, and they don't appear to be so gut shy as the
evening closes in. But as soon as you can no longer see your sedge fly
on the water, reel up. Fishing in the dark is no true sport, and it is
uncommonly near to poaching.
[Illustration]