on the logs. Nick tied a new hook on the leader, pulling the gut tight until
it grimped into itself in a hard knot.
He baited up, then picked up the rod and walked to the far end of the
logs to get into the water, where it was not too deep. Under and beyond the
logs was a deep pool. Nick walked around the shallow shelf near the swamp
shore until he came out on the shallow bed of the stream.
On the left, where the meadow ended and the woods began, a great elm
tree was uprooted. Gone over in a storm, it lay back into the woods, its
roots clotted with dirt, grass growing in them, rising a solid bank beside
the stream. The river cut to the edge of the uprooted tree. From where Nick
stood he could see deep channels, like ruts, cut in the shallow bed of the
stream by the flow of the current. Pebbly where he stood and pebbly and full
of boulders beyond; where it curved near the tree roots, the bed of the
stream was marly and between the ruts of deep water green weed fronds swung
in the current.
Nick swung the rod back over his shoulder and forward, and the line,
curving forward, laid the grasshopper down on one of the deep channels in
the weeds. A trout struck and Nick hooked him.
Holding the rod far out toward the uprooted tree and sloshing backward
in the current. Nick worked the trout, plunging, the rod bending alive, out
of the danger of the weeds into the open river. Holding the rod, pumping
alive against the current. Nick brought the trout in. He rushed, but always
came, the spring of the rod yielding to the rushes, sometimes jerking under
water, but always bringing him in. Nick eased downstream with the rushes.
The rod above his head he led the trout over the net, then lifted.
The trout hung heavy in the net, mottled trout back and silver sides in
the meshes. Nick unhooked him; heavy sides, good to hold, big undershot jaw,
and slipped him, heaving and big sliding, into the long sack that hung from
his shoulders in the water.
Nick spread the mouth of the sack against the current and it filled,
heavy with water. He held it up, the bottom in the stream, and the water
poured out through the sides. Inside at the bottom was the big trout, alive
in the water.
Nick moved downstream. The sack out ahead of him sunk heavy in the
water, pulling from his shoulders.
It was getting hot, the sun hot on the back of his neck.
Nick had one good trout. He did not care about getting many trout. Now
the stream was shallow and wide. There were trees along both banks. The
trees of the left bank made short shadows on the current in the forenoon
sun. Nick knew there were trout in each shadow. In the afternoon, after the
sun had crossed toward the hills, the trout would be in the cool shadows on
the other side of the stream.
The very biggest ones would lie up close to the bank. You could always
pick them up there on the Black. When the sun was down they all moved out
into the current. Just when the sun made the water blinding in the glare
before it went down, you were liable to strike a big trout anywhere in the
current. It was almost impossible to fish then, the surface of the water was
blinding as a mirror in the sun. Of course, you could fish upstream, but in
a stream like the Black, or this, you had to wallow against the current and
in a deep place, the water piled up on you. It was no fun to fish upstream
with this much current.
Nick moved along through the shallow stretch watching the banks for
deep holes. A beech tree grew close beside the river, so that the branches
hung down into the water. The stream went back in under the leaves. There
were always trout in a place like that.
Nick did not care about fishing that hole. He was sure he would get
hooked in the branches.
It looked deep though. He dropped the grasshopper so the current took
it under water, back in under the overhanging branch. The line pulled hard
and Nick struck. The trout threshed heavily, half out of water in the leaves
and branches. The line was caught. Nick pulled hard and the trout was off.
He reeled in and holding the hook in his hand, walked down the stream.
Ahead, close to the left bank, was a big log. Nick saw it was hollow;
pointing up river the current entered it smoothly, only a little ripple
spread each side of the log. The water was deepening. The top of the hollow
log was gray and dry. It was partly in the shadow.
Nick took the cork out of the grasshopper bottle and a hopper clung to
it. He picked him off, hooked him and tossed him out. He held the rod far
out so that the hopper on the water moved into the current flowing into the
hollow log. Nick lowered the rod and the hopper floated in. There was a
heavy strike. Nick swung the rod against the pull. It felt as though he were
hooked into the log itself, except for the live feeling.
He tried to force the fish out into the current. It came, heavily.
The line went slack and Nick thought the trout was gone. Then he saw
him, very near, in the current, shaking his head, trying to get the hook
out. His mouth was clamped shut. He was fighting the hook in the clear
flowing current.
Looping in the line with his left hand. Nick swung the rod to make the
line taut and tried to lead the trout toward the net, but he was gone, out
of sight, the line pumping. Nick fought him against the current, letting him
thump in the water against the spring of the rod. He shifted the rod to his
left hand, worked the trout upstream, holding his weight, fighting on the
rod, and then let him down into the net. He lifted him clear of the water, a
heavy half circle in the net, the net dripping, unhooked him and slid him
into the sack.
He spread the mouth of the sack and looked down in at the two big trout
alive in the water.
Through the deepening water. Nick waded over to the hollow log. He took
the sack off, over his head, the trout flopping as it came out of water, and
hung it so the trout were deep in the water. Then he pulled himself up on
the log and sat, the water from his trouser and boots running down into the
stream. He laid his rod down, moved along to the shady end of the log and
took the sandwiches out of his pocket. He dipped the sandwiches in the cold
water. The current carried away the crumbs. He ate the sandwiches and dipped
his hat full of water to drink, the water running out through his hat just
ahead of his drinking.
It was cool in the shade, sitting on the log. He took a cigarette out
and struck a match to light it. The match sunk into the gray wood, making a
tiny furrow. Nick leaned over the side of the log, found a hard place and
lit the match. He sat smoking and watching the river.
Ahead the river narrowed and went into a swamp. The river became smooth
and deep and the swamp looked solid with cedar trees, their trunks dose
together, their branches solid. It would not be possible to walk through a
swamp like that. The branches grew so low. You would have to keep almost
level with the ground to move at all. You could not crash through the
branches. That must be why the anim
als that lived in swamps were built the
way they were. Nick thought.
He wished he had brought something to read. He felt like reading. He
did not feel like going on into the swamp. He looked down the river. A big
cedar slanted all the way across the stream. Beyond that the river went into
the swamp.
Nick did not want to go in there now. He felt a reaction against deep
wading with the water deepening up under his armpits, to hook big trout in
places impossible to land them. In the swamp the banks were bare, the big
cedars came together overhead, the sun did not come through, except in
patches; in the fast deep water, in the half light, the fishing would be
tragic. In the swamp fishing was a tragic adventure. Nick did not want it.
He did not want to go down the stream any further today.
He took out his knife, opened it and stuck it in the log. Then he
pulled up the sack, reached into it and brought out one of the trout.
Holding him near the tail, hard to hold, alive, in his hand, he whacked him
against the log. The trout quivered, rigid. Nick laid him on the log in the
shade and broke the neck of the other fish the same way. He laid them side
by side on the log. They were fine trout.
Nick cleaned them, slitting them from the vent to the tip of the jaw.
All the insides and the gills and tongue came out in one piece. They were
both males; long gray-white strips of milt, smooth and clean. All the
insides clean and compact, coming out all together. Nick tossed the offal
ashore for the minks to find.
He washed the trout in the stream. When he held them back up in the
water they looked like live fish. Their color was not gone yet. He washed
his hands and dried them on the log. Then he laid the trout on the sack
spread out on the log, rolled them up in it, tied the bundle and put it in
the landing net. His knife was still standing, blade stuck in the log. He
cleaned it on the wood and put it in his pocket.
Nick stood up on the log, holding his rod, the landing net hanging
heavy, then stepped into the water and splashed ashore. He climbed the bank
and cut up into the woods, toward the high ground. He was going back to
camp. He looked back. The river just showed through the trees. There were
plenty of days coming when he could fish the swamp.
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Last-modified: Mon, 04 Dec 2000 17:44:57 GMT
Ernest Hemingway, Big Two-Hearted River
(Series: # )
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