After days and days of working in the legal pits, I have time to sit and think. I just put an Edith Piaf recording on the old phono. You know, Edith Piaf, the "Little Sparrow" of Paris in the 1940's and 50's. Her waifish voice is as calming today as it was in World War II when she was the hit of Paris. Listening to her lilting voice, I return to better days.

Last Sunday, Joe Elder and I went down to Floyd's Fork to fish. It was a magnificent May day, warmer than the cool days we have been experiencing this cold wet spring. Floyd's Fork is my "little bit of heaven". It runs through some of the last wooded areas in the county. The stream has its headwaters about five miles south of the Ohio river just east of Louisville, Kentucky. The topography of the area forces it to run southwest and parallel to the Ohio river, until it reaches the Salt River and then joins the Ohio river southwest of Louisville near Ft. Knox Military Reservation.

We are able to access the winding, sycamore lined stream at a friend's farm ten minutes from my suburban home. The road leading into the farm is small and winding and ends at the two-story restored log cabin. When I discovered this diamond in the rough 30 years ago, I knew instantly that retreats such as this were as rare as hen's teeth. Rosie, the present resident is a wonderful person who relishes nature and does not mind sharing her wonderland with people of similar feelings who respect the land and all that inhabits it. We passed to the back of her house and waved to her and the guests sitting out on the patio, the most recent addition to the cabin. The heavy spring rains and flooding threatened but did not harm the small insignificant cabin that sits not more than a thousand yards from the stream. At this place of entry into the stream the surrounding area is broad flat grazing and farm land.

We were able to drive through the pear orchard, across unmowed spring grasses and weeds, to the old barbedwire dilapidated fence that was once a barrier to cattle and horses. After slipping on my ten year old Orbis waders and boots, we walked down a small draw and into the stained fast moving water of the Fork. Standing in water up to your waist makes you feel like a part of the stream. You experience the current. Current is everything when fishing small areas of water. Current is structure to fish.

Joe elected to go downstream and as he fishes areas much faster than I do, I slowly fished the entry point. After pulling a small red eared sunfish out from under the fallen tree across the creek, I heard Joe proclaiming the hooking of a "nice" fish. I watched as he slowly played a twelve inch largemouth bass in the current. Once out of the heavy current, the fish made two acrobatic jumps as if playing to a camera or performing a spiritual healing to two aging fishermen.

I made a mental note of where the fish was caught in relation to the swift water and of course taking note of the lure and its color. In these small clear streams, the color of your lure often determines the number and quality of fish caught. After years of fishing, the real joy is to drop an artificial lure into a very small area and then have the fish you see in you mind grab it in one big swirling gulp and head for open fast water. Then you glow in the same warm tones as a Hemingway story.

It was such a spot that I spied on this idyllic day. The water was running shallow over shoals of centuries old creek stones creating a water trace of sparkling gems. The creek architecture changed to force the babbling waters to undercut a root bound bank and the constricture increased its strength to the point a man could not stand against its surging pressure. I stood in the shallows and changed lures as I prepared to cast into the raging current. (You see, fishermen have lively imaginations.) In the mouth of one of the fish I caught was an undigested crustacean we call crawdads. The color of these crayfish changes as the temperature of the water changes. So after matching the artificial color to the tone of the live bait found in the fish's gullet, my cast landed the imitation crawdad in the spot I had spied and immediately I had a mystical experience. The smallmouth bass moved from my brain to the end of my line and forced my drag to release line as he cavorted in the pressurized current. After two jumps and one last run this three pound smallmouth bass was a trophy in my hands. As I admired the golden brown-black color of the healthy fish, I first wished Joe was present to see this beauty. But then, the fish and I had a "ground of being" experience. I was happy that only I and this captured creature were sharing this moment and as I released this wonderful being, I realized I was able to see a glimpse of God and realize the presence of the Supreme Creator and make a connection. I could not have had a deeper religious feeling if I were in a cathedral in Rome with the Pope celebrating Mass.

Catching a fish like this is like a hole-in-one in golf. And on this Sunday, I was acing the course like a Tiger Woods. I caught and released twenty-five fish on this fine Kentucky spring Sunday.

This was a day to be remembered.

DonS
(C)1997
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