Désole, il fallait que je la fasse en Anglais…. Here I am, leaving the city after an enormous breakfast, on the meanders of the road leading to the Vologne. It’s 11 am, one more lazy morning spend to fish when the rest of my country is getting annoyed about his situation, and working hard to get some money. I feel guilty. Guilty of taking one year long just for my own selfish pleasure. Whereas some people are just struggling in a factory, me, I am abusing of the kindness of my mother, welcoming me again at home, only thinking about my rivers, my fishes, my flies, my plans , and my girlfriend between 2 thoughts. Fuck it. Since I am 16 years old, I worked every summer holidays, so, this year, I said to myself, this will be THE year. One year all about fishing, an amazing story, separated in mesmerizing chapters. September from December: the pursuit of the Grayling on the Moselle. January from April: a useful break to prepare a perfect spring and summer: preparation for Mongolia, fly –tying, and fishing on the Vologne. May: Work in Scotland, one more time, for the river. June: the stairway to heaven, or the road to hell: one month in Mongolia. July to September: a summer of fly fishing in the East of France, from the Ain river to the Rognon, with a lot of delights on the upper –Moselle. September: end of the dream, going back to school. Finally, it happened. This long winter fade away with the sadness of my spirit full of questions about my trip in Mongolia. The sunshine is here again, daffodils are blooming in the fields. This brightness is offering me a resurrection. I am more faithful than ever: the contact with the river bring me this strength that will allow me to go beyond the skyline. I arrive at the bridge. The water, due to snow melting, is cristal clear. Fortunately, I am alone on the spot, without this bloody mob of poachers that are just splashing their metallic scarecrow in this fragile and delicate river that just deserves flies tied by passionate hands. I know the method, I know it since the fishing is closed, I inspected it and thank about it a thousand times. The winning duo: the parachute and his nymph. An obvious orange spot drifting on the river, sustaining a mock Baetis Rhodani, and the word “barb” is our worst enemy. This is so easy to cast. The weight of the copper on the nymph is like an ally against the wind and the tangles. All right, let’s seep into this new powertrip: invisible and smarts trouts on the stream, and be discreet boy, we are not having fun with cousin grayling. Here, this is the trout kingdom, no mistake is tolerated: you’ll be crawling on the ground, you’ll be casting in 2 times, and you’ll be hiding your shadow. Dragging will be the shame of your art. And I begin to paint, stream after stream, boulder after boulder. No one at home here. Wow! The spot is so gorgeous! Even if there is no trout in here, I want it so bad that there will be a trout here. Damn right. All of sudden, my parachute disappears, strike! Fish! The water is so clear that I see her wobbling on the bottom, not a big fish, but I deserved it. I lost it. Not enough tension on the line. I had too much line out to strike it well. This in the thousand time I say it to myself, write and rewrite it again and again and again in your mind: BE CONCENTRATED YOU SILLY JERK, especially with trouts, that are fast as lightning. One or two tangles later, second attack, and only God know how many good drifts I’ve done before. The fish is hooked and alive for real, she’s on the net. An average inhabitant of the Vologne. No red spots in her family, the authentic stem. Its 3 o’clock, the gusts of wind become too powerful for my line and I am losing my patience for tangles. Get out the powertrip dude. Take your car and go back to the city. ndm : va falloir que tu nous mettes ton programme 2009 et le compte-rendu de ta sortie en français dans le forum 😉 Pat
