the native

The Native
The date was December 30th 2007. I was wading down the Carman’s river with a fly fishing rod in my hands. I hadn’t been seriously casting, something more along the lines of slapping about , here and there, behind every fallen brush or side pool.
It wasn’t the sense of adventure, or even the feeling of wanderlust. I knew exactly why I was there. I was searching for the native brook trout. I had learned of them from the writings of fishing literature which protects these threatened species and emphasizes their unparalleled beauty.
Wading down the river gives me a feeling most Long Islanders will never feel. There are no houses in sight, not even the sounds of any cars nor the grotesque sight of garbage litter. I was exactly where I wanted to be in the universe, left with the solitude and simplicity of my thoughts and every step in my waders down the river.
The river got thinner in a small area and it took my full attention to place my steps properly. The bottom of the river was rocky and the flow of the ten foot wide portion of the Carman’s river grew stronger.
I noticed a pair of belted kingfishers (Ceryle alcyon) fluttering in the brush nearby. I didn’t pay much attention to them, since all my efforts were directed towards proper foot placement. They didn’t seem to mind me much either. Perhaps they were fishing as well.
As the steps of my wading grew safer and the river widened a few feet, I continued slapping my artificial Bitch Creek fly at every nook and cranny that could possibly hold a fish. I had my eye set on some fallen pine, so I proceeded in the direction with special ease in efforts to not spook whatever fish may be lurking beneath.
It only took a split second for the tiny fish to dart from under the pine and attack my fly with deathly intentions. With reflex speed equal to the fish‘s, I struck and gave pressure, lifting my fly fishing outfit in attempt of hooking the jaw of the fish. “Hooked up,” I said aloud as excitement ran up and down my spine. My thoughts were nonexistent at that particular moment. My actions and every raised hair on my body were glued to the task at hand, and I was involved in a moment of flow. I bent my knees just a touch and raised my arms as the tip of my rod twitched. The fish dancing beneath gave a powerful struggle for its size, and after nearly a few seconds I caught the glance of the most dominant characteristic trait of the brook trout: the tips of its fins are whiter than snow.
I guided the small fish into my hands as my excitement reached its peak. I held it snuggly in my hands as it attempted its last escape by thrashing and bouncing and almost jumped out of the small space my thumbs had to offer. I moved my hand away ever so cautiously, as I viewed the most beautiful fish I had ever seen. The native brook trout (Salvelinus fontainalis) of the Carman’s River are tiny creatures. Known for their beauty, my fish of eleven inches made my eyes sparkle with amazement. I had noticed a small bump on its underbelly, giving off the sense that it had been gorging itself on tiny and minute mid-winter insects. Also on the sides of this native brookie were about fifteen small circles know as its vermillion markings. These red, purple and pinkish dots on the fish’s body are bright in color and have the capability of teaching the angler something about the fish’s diet.
A big grin widened on my face as I gave one more glance of the legendary brook trout before setting my hands into the river to release the fish. I was finished. I broke apart my rod into it’s pieces and started my way downriver. This time, a touch of contentment was added into my breathing sequence.