"Well Iâll be danged," he said.
âWhat is it?â
âA big rainbow.â He jiggled the hook from the blunt head. Howardâs a sportsman. He wonât touch a fish if he doesnât have to. He put the net in the water and watched the âbow swim off. âThatâs one weird fish,â he said.
I knew what he meant. Rainbows are rare in these little Midwest creeks. The DNR stocks a few âkeeperâ fish, and tells us they donât reproduce. But Iâve caught enough little ones to make me suspicious. Howardâs might be a wild fish.
He blew the big imitation dry and checked the knot. Then applied more silicon floatant. After casting again two or three times, he had a splashing take.
This was another big fish, and Howard expertly played him into shallow water. But there was no quit. The fish jumped, turning all the way over, showing yellow and red. A big brown, maybe as big as the one Iâd caught.
People love rainbows. Itâs a western thing, a Montana thing, but inch for inch nothing battles like a brown trout. The fish jumped again and I thought Howard lost him. Gaining line, he discovered the fish, now tired, trying to sneak downstream. He netted him going by. The trout had tangled up in the tippet, and Howard wet his hand and pulled the fish free. He held him up.
âEighteen inches?â he called.
More like sixteen, but why ruin a manâs funâŠ
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