He's not yet into his double-digits in terms of age. Undoubtedly, he gets to the river on his bicycle or by foot; I’m sure he’s not old enough to drive. I’ve seen him on this stretch of river before. He’s as intense a fishermen as I’ve ever encountered; far beyond his actual age in the intensity he has. He fishes in barefeet and cut-off blue jeans. He wears an old grimy baseball cap of dubious color he undoubtedly found along the road or the river. Never have seen him wearing a shirt. I don’t imagine he’s ever seen me before; he’s too intent on the fish. He’s got an old simple fly reel taped with black electrical tape to his one-piece cane pole; a couple rough guides taped to the pole to hold his line. Although I really have no idea what his name might be, I call him Eddy. I can’t really say why. Just seems right. Eddy stands atop one of the biggest boulders in the river, placing his fly effortlessly in a pool behind another boulder, an impossibly long shot across the river. I watch intently, admiringly. Eddy does this three or four times, when suddenly, he rears back with his rod and sets the hook. It is a monster rainbow, more than 20 inches, bigger than I’ve ever seen in this stretch of river. Eddy plays him for several seconds, but the fish heads downstream in the current, impossible to turn. Eddy then surprises me once again as he throws his pole, javelin-style, down the river and jumps in after it. Using the river’s current, he catches up to his pole, still with the fish on, he fights it a few more seconds, then throws his pole again downstream before swimming after it. The last of Eddy that I see is arms and legs flailing in the whitewater as he goes downstream around the corner.
An hour later, as I fish some of the same stretch of river, I see Eddy trudging back up the river, sometimes on dry land, sometimes up to his shins in water. He’s got a whittled green willow stringer with a single massive rainbow. His rod and reel he must’ve ditched under a log or something, for it’s not in evidence. He sees me, gets a big, freckle-faced grin as he passes, and asks me how’s fishing. I answer, saying not as good as him, and then watch him continue on up the river. I fished that stretch of river many times; saw him a couple more times but never did get his real name. Never caught that big of fish, either.
