I was intently watching a size 16 Light Cahill dry fly dance and pirouette through a tiny eddy when a farmer appeared at the top of the hill. He was gripping his shotgun and waving it toward me. He was yelling and in high dudgeon.
I wasn?t sure of the shotgun gauge. It?s hard to focus on minutia like that when on the wrong end of a barrel that can throw a load of shot or a deer slug at high muzzle velocity.
My friend, a few pools away, also heard the invective. We both reeled in line to face the farmer, who was still screaming.
“You blankety-blanks,” he ranted. “Get off my property and don?t ever come back! You?ve got a lot of nerve doing what you did, and I want you out of here now. Now!”
He turned and went back into his farmhouse, the screen door slamming shut. Bewildered, we walked slowly up the hill to our car. Neither of us knew what had happened. It was just midmorning, but obviously it also was the end of an awful day.
We had started the day hopefully ? with road and topo maps ? searching byways for “private” trout water. We found this stream, pulled into the long driveway and politely knocked on the door of the 1920s frame house with the metal roof and wrap-around porch.
The farmer who answered was in his late 50s, short and slight, wearing work-worn, faded denim overalls and a short-sleeve shirt.
We asked to fish his stream. We would be careful of his property, his wishes, his crops and cattle, we explained.
“Sure, you can fish,” he said. “Don?t get many requests like this. Some people don?t ask, and I really don?t like that. Just don?t fish around that little bridge down there.”
He pointed down the hill to a small wooden bridge under which the stream gurgled and purred.
“I like to take my grandchildren there when they visit,” the farmer said. “We have a great time fishing.” He smiled with the memories of past excursions.
We assured him that we would not, returned to the car and suited up for fishing. Walking to the stream, we avoided by several pools the farmer?s favored bridge. We couldn?t even see the bridge and grandkids? pool. But it was visible from the farmhouse.
It wasn?t long after landing several small trout that the threatening shotgun episode began.
With tackle packed after this incident, we returned to the farmhouse determined to find out what had so angered him.
“We?re packed up and leaving, but we honestly don?t know what we did to upset you,” I said, after he answered the knock on his door. He was still upset and now looked mean. “Whatever it was, we are truly sorry. We just wanted you to know that.”
“You know what you did,” the farmer scowled, the shotgun close at hand. “I told you not to fish around that bridge, but you let those buddies of yours come upstream and fish that area where I take my grandkids.”
He was still seething, his adrenaline rising by the second.
Unknown to us, two other anglers who had not asked the farmer?s permission had parked on the road, walked up the stream and fished the forbidden bridge area. We didn?t know them or even see them, but the farmer spotted them from his kitchen window, high on the hill.
If we hadn?t gone back to the farmhouse, that landowner no doubt would have never granted fishing access to anyone again. Period. And those two other anglers ? because of their rudeness ? probably have caused other farmers to close off their streams and ponds forever.
We left on good terms, almost friends, and he welcomed us ? even encouraged us ? to come back anytime to fish his trout stream. We promised that we would ? and soon.
We never returned.
