Free Troutsmith by Kevin Searock

to flies or grubbed along the bottom for scuds and sow bugs just a few feet from the edge of the pavement.
    Duncan Weston, a tall, white-haired giant of a Scot, was assigned to be our guide for the week. We got along famously right from the beginning. As Teresa and I tackled up on our first morning beside the clear-as-air Bullington Stream on the upper Test, Duncan explained the rules of the water to us. “We’ve been assigned beat number two,” he said. In the UK and Europe, a “beat” is a marked stretch of river that has been reserved for the exclusive use of one or more anglers for a set period of time. The beat system spreads people out and keeps them from getting in each other’s way. Duncan continued, “Dry fly and nymph only, and the flies must be cast to visible trout.” This wasn’t much of a restriction on the crystalline Bullington Stream, where trout and grayling could easily be seen from twenty yards away. “Beat number two is small for a full day’s fishing, but I checked the log book today and nobody has signed up for beat number one or beat number three, so we might be able to fish those beats after lunch.” With some misgivings we showed Duncan our fly boxes, which were filled with typical Wisconsin patterns like the Bead-head Pink Squirrel, Bead-head Woolly Bugger, Bead-head Prince, Bead-head Biot Bug, and Bead-head Pheasant Tail Nymph. Sure enough, Duncan frowned as he scanned the rows of perfectly tied flies. “What do you think?” I asked. “Well, Kev,” he replied, “I’ve seined the chalkstreams and studied their fly life for more than thirty years, and I have yet to see a nymph wearing a brass deep-sea diver’s helmet.”
    I will always remember that first morning’s walk along the beautiful channels of the Bullington Stream, floored with golden gravel and bordered with thick emerald masses of cress and water crowfoot. With every trout and every feeding grayling we passed, my heart beat faster. Finally we reached the bottom of beat number two. Trout were rising quietly beneath the low branches of some hawthorn trees on my own bank. Duncan had a look, and I had a look. Then we conferred. “I think they’re taking nymphs a few inches beneath the surface,” I said. “It’s their backs and tails that are coming out of the water when they rise.” Duncan smiled, “Ah, right enough. Have ya’ got any Pheasant Tail or Greenwell Nymphs not rigged for minesweeping?” I did. Once I had a fly on the leader, I got down on my hands and knees and crept and crawled to the edge of the stream about thirty feet below the feeding trout. Duncan smiled again. I had the butt section of the leader treated to float and the tippet treated to sink. Then I took a deep breath and sent the day’s first cast looping over the Bullington Stream.
    The little Pheasant Tail Nymph settled onto the surface of the water about thirty-five feet away and sank immediately. I watched the floating part of the leader like a hawk. It stopped and pulled upstream, and I set the hook into a fat, high-flying Test trout. “Boy, you are a show-off, aren’t ya’?” Duncan laughed. He handed me his net as I brought the trout in. The net was the usual kind seen on the chalkstreams, where the banks are swampy and the trout have to be netted some distance away from where the angler is standing. A hollow, black anodized steel handle, brass collar, and an aluminum frame were folded up tightly. Duncan took the net in hand and gave it a flip of his wrist. Instantly the aluminum frame rotated forward and snapped securely onto the end of the handle. Then Duncan put his foot into the frame and extended the net handle to its full length of four-and-a-half feet. The extended reach of this long net made landing the trout easy.
    Teresa took a photo as I released the fire-gilt two-pound brownie back into the icy flow of the Bullington