Rainbow Catcher

by Marnie Reed Crowell

It was a lovely day but Ingrid was so busy being cross that she did not notice. She was feeling like a tangled tackle box, because her father and her brother Andy had gone off fishing without her.  To be fair, her father was always very careful to give both of his children equal attention, but today was Andy's turn, and Ingrid was not feeling generous.

When she came to her favorite spot along the river bank, Ingrid was very surprised, and not at all pleased, to see that there was a fisherman already there. But, on second thought, maybe here was some fun after all. Ingrid slowed her steps to her secret, soundless, stalking Indian pace, and chose a dark, dapple-shaded corner under a bush to hide.

Pretty good caster, Ingrid thought to herself as she watched the fisherman lift his flyrod and send a graceful arc of line out over the water. The tiny fly at the end of the line settled gently on the surface and rode down the current in a very pretty, jaunty way. Ingrid leaned forward eagerly to see if a trout were going to appear from the depths to snap up the artificial insect.

The fisherman turned and smiled right at the place where the little girl was peeking through the bushes. And the fisherman was not a man at all; it was a woman, a little old lady, Ingrid thought. 

The fisherwoman had tucked her skirt hems here and there into the belt around her waist so that mostly the cloth billowed about her knees instead of dragging in the rushing water. She wore a lumpy fisherman's vest bulging with pockets upon pockets. She was whistling tunes with more notes than the birds used.

Peering intently at the water, the small woman leaned way forward, and, with a quick, quiet motion she pulled in all the slack line. She looked like a heron fishing. Suddenly, she gave her rod a flick and held it up toward the sky like the torch of the Statue of Liberty. With a zing and a hum the reel began to sing as a fish took the fly and raced away with it. Once, twice, a large trout jumped, handsome in the sun. The woman began to sing to him as she reeled him to the shallows at her feet. Then she reached down and gave her line a shake. Away the fish streaked to another dark hiding place.

"Yodelay, yodeloo," sang the woman. She waved a salute to the fish, then turned and waded straight to where Ingrid was hiding.  She made scarcely a ripple as she moved, balancing herself with a wading staff made from an old-fashioned ski pole. The basket had been removed from the shaft of the pole, and a leather thong tied the staff to her waist. Ingrid could see that everything about this odd figure appeared to be tied together with strings.

"Do you like my hat?" laughed the little woman, taking it off by carefully easing the chin strap over her nose. The hat was almost, but not quite, like what most fly fishermen wear.  Around its broad brim hung dozens of flies made of feathers and fur and sparkly bits of stuff. There were rows of bare hooks –from tiny, tiny ones as dainty as an eyelash, all the way up to hooks as big as Ingrid's thumb. Wound around half the band was a dry, crinkly snakeskin.

"Don't you like my hat band?  It's a hand-me-down from a snake friend of mine. He'd outgrown it and didn't want it anymore, so he gave it to me. Same with the big gray feather from the Canada goose."

When Ingrid took the hat offered to her she could see that there was a wild rose bud tucked into the band, as well as some blue flowers.

"Name's Catchie. Catriona, really; Catriona Laughing Moon MacRae. My grandfather was a Highland Scot and my grandmother was one of the last of the People around here."

Ingrid guessed that her new friend with the dancing dark eyes meant that she was part Native American.

"Cathy" wasn't quite me, so folks started to call me Catchie; Old Catch-and-release, that's me. Catchie to you, Ingrid."

Catchie was not wearing waders, as most other fishermen did. She wore one red sneaker and one blue one and bright-red wool socks which sagged around her ankles. Ingrid was quite sure Catchie didn't mind being smiled at.

"Why aren't you fishing?" asked Catchie.

"Today is my brother's turn. We're both learning to fish. He's doing very well, my dad says, but I am still quite a bit of trouble."

"Humph," said Catchie. "Aren't we all? How would you like to fish here with me?"

Since Ingrid was well within the limits of what her dad called the "Home waters," she felt it was OK to befriend this fellow fisher who already knew her name.

"I have an idea," said Catchie. "Follow me."

***

Surprise upon surprise, Catchie went stomping and squishing back up the path to the little cabin on the river bank that belonged to Ingrid's grandmother. Catchie stretched up on tiptoes and pulled a fly rod out of the shadows under the eaves of the cabin. She swished the long rod back and forth through the air a few times, studying the bend at the tip with a smile. With a nod of her head she seated herself across from Ingrid at the picnic table, which stood under the trees.

Ingrid could hardly believe all the items that Catchie rummaged out of her vest: In addition to leaders and weights, there were three rubber bands, a roll of sticky tape, a spool of yellow thread and of black, a pair of forceps, nail clippers, a handful of fur here, a fistful of feathers there, a fossil shell, half a cookie, an apple, a lace-edged hankie, and some smooth green stones, which Catchie called river jade.  

And that was not even counting the things she wore around her neck: There were small binoculars, a large magnifying glass, a compass, a match safe, pliers, a knife with a tool set of its own built into the handle, and what looked quite like cold sourdough pancakes, threaded on a string and tucked into one pocket.

Whistling her wild, more-than-bird-song tune, Catchie set to work tying flies. She twirled the spool of yellow thread around a hook shank, tied on a puff of deer hair, whipped on a few more rounds of thread, and gave the spool a good pull with her clever, strong fingers. Like magic, a collar of hairs frilled up, and here stood a lively imitation of a caddis fly. Ingrid had often watched her father tie flies at home. But he used a vise to hold the hook; Ingrid had never seen anyone use just fingers. Catchie stuck the fly into the apple for safekeeping and tied two more.

"There you are, my dear," said Catchie holding out the apple with its three new flies. "One for the alders overhead, one for the rocks under water, and one for the fish that's out there getting nice and fat and scrappy."

They gathered up the rods, and off they went to the water's edge.

"How do you whistle like that?" asked Ingrid. "I never heard anybody else do a tune like that. Do the birds ever answer you?"

"Gracious, child, there are more songs than there are people. I think I'm answering the birds, not the other way round."

Catchie did not seem to be offended by such personal questions so Ingrid ventured another.

"Why do you sing to the fish?  Do they have ears?"

"Good question. No, fish don't have our kind of ears. Flowers don't have feet either, so why dance with them? but if I don't do it, who will?"

At the river bank, Catchie showed Ingrid how to hold the rod and use its springiness to carry the line out behind her.

"Not too much line," Catchie cautioned. "You only want what you can control."

Ingrid was surprised at how easy it now seemed to send the line behind her, to wait for the fly to finish traveling back over her shoulder, and then to send first line, then fly, floating gently out over the water.

When they came to Ingrid's very favorite place, where the wild roses grew in a delicate pink blanket all over the bank, Catchie said, "Here is where you will catch a fish. Trout have good taste."

Ingrid was so excited that she sent the line out in a heap. But, before she had time to be too disappointed with herself, the white chin of a trout showed itself at her fly and she felt a sharp tug on her line. She pulled back quickly, but the trout had gotten away.

"You won't see him again today," Catchie said,"But there are lots more fish in the sea. Now you've gotten a little smarter, and so has he. If you don't do it, who will?"

Ingrid could not help laughing at the idea that she was out to smarten up the fish. Yes, if she didn't do, it who would? Well, she'd rather it be her, so she cast again and again. By the end of the afternoon she didn't even need Catchie to tell her she was doing quite well.

"Fishing is fishing," said Catchie. "Catching is something else. That will be tomorrow's lesson. Can you put the rod back up on the pegs under the eaves, if you stand on a chair?"

Ingrid nodded that she thought she could. She suddenly understood that the two of them had a secret.

Catchie stepped quietly into the stream. Casting to the right and to the left, she disappeared around a bend.

***

Ingrid skipped back to the cabin, trying out some yodels of her own along the way. She put the rod which had once belonged to her Swiss grandfather back in its hiding place. Then she painted warpaint on her doll. She was really happy to see her brother and father when they came back.

"I almost caught a huge fish," bragged Andy.

That night Ingrid did not sleep in the little cabin under the trees. She and her father and her brother all took their sleeping bags out by the riverbank. Whenever she woke during the night, Ingrid could hear fish slapping their tails and making sipping noises in the stream. Once, she even saw a shooting star, which she felt was all her very own to wish on.

In the morning Ingrid surprised her father and brother by suggesting that today could be Andy's turn again. Andy was very pleased and promised he'd give her one of his new coloring books when they got home.

As soon as the coast was clear, Ingrid pushed a chair over to the cabin eaves and reached up to take down the old rod. She hurried off to the rose bank. Hanging from a tree branch like two red flags was a pair of woolly socks hung up to dry. Sure enough, there was Catchie, casting and singing. When she saw her little friend, she waded over ever so quietly and stepped out of the water.  Today a pair of green socks sagged around her ankles.

"Good morning," said Catchie. "It's never too early to wash the socks, is it?"

Ingrid nodded and giggled. Her own socks looked pretty disreputable.

"I can swim, you know," Ingrid announced hopefully. "Can I come wading today?"

Catchie appeared to be thinking the matter over.

"My socks need washing," said Ingrid, with great certainty.

"Well, that settles it, doesn't it?" said Catchie.          

Catchie cut a wading staff and helped Ingrid tie it to her belt.

"Now you won't lose it when you get excited. I find that when I'm thinking exciting ideas, I tend to forget about things."

"You must have a lot of exciting ideas," Ingrid said. "Is that why you have so many strings tied on you?"

"Yes, indeed. And the strings remind me not to get tangled up with too many things. Things can keep you from having time for ideas. You know, part of what I like about fish is that they don't have any pockets. They don't collect a lot of stuff."

"So, do fish have lots of ideas?" asked Ingrid.

"Today you're going to find out." Catchie took Ingrid's rod and leaned it against a tree next to her own. Ingrid looked a little puzzled, but Catchie just smiled. "You are going to learn to think like a fish," she said.     

Catchie showed Ingrid how to face upstream, take little steps, and find a good place for each of her feet.

"We can sneak up on fish because we know they will be looking upstream. That's the way they rest so the water will just flow on by them. Look at the water, and you can see where little streams of current braid together like water flowing into a funnel.  That is where the fish lie, letting the river bring them good things to eat. When they see something they want, they just tip up and grab it."

"Can you really see the fish in the water?" asked Ingrid.

Instead of answering, Catchie took off her sunglasses and asked Ingrid for hers. Catchie put the two pairs together so Ingrid could see through both at once.

"Look what happens when I rotate my glasses over yours," said Catchie.

"You see dark and then light. That is because our lenses are polarized, built with tiny lines in the glass. Those invisible lines work like venetian blinds. When we get both pairs lined up just right, they shut out all the light. When just one pair of glasses is filtering out some of the glare, you can see into the water better. But seeing is more than just looking. It takes more than just a magic pair of glasses to learn to see fish."

Together Catchie and Ingrid waded up the river. They looked to the right and then to the left. But they did not cast a single time. It took all morning, but Ingrid was delighted when finally all by herself she came to see  dark submarine shapes and fish-shaped shadows by an overhanging bank or next to a sunken log.

Ingrid thought it was exciting to see a fish, but not half as exciting as it would be to catch one. When was Catchie going to go back and get the fishing rods?

***

"I wonder if Andy has caught a fish by now," Ingrid murmurred.

"Time for us to do a little catching," said Catchie. She marched right up the bank and out of the water.

"We'll give these fish some time to forget all about us."   

Gallumph, kahskwoosh, gallumph, kahskwoosh went the soggy sneakers of Catchie and Ingrid as they picked their way through the flowery meadow.

What kind of catching did Catchie mean now? Ingrid wondered. Was it fish at last, or was it those cold pancakes which Catchie shared with her? No, not just pancakes. Catchie seemed to have something more in mind.

Was it the butterfly which Catchie caught with her hat and held ever so gently so Ingrid could see the pattern of silver spots and pearly lines on its wings?

"People used to think they had to stick a pin through a butterfly and put it in a collection to enjoy it," said Catchie. She opened her fingers and blew a kiss as the spangled fritillary flew away. "Now we are quite content just to take a look, and some of us get pleasure out of pinning a name on the ones we see."

"Do you know all their names?" asked Ingrid.

"Yep. And the names of all the rivers in Virginia, the mountains in New Hampshire, and all the real cowboys in Montana."

They laughed together. Ingrid was really enjoying having a new friend.

Catchie swooped down on a tiny insect, which had just landed on Ingrid's shoulder.

"There, that one's a caddis fly. See how it holds its wings folded over its back like a paper airplane? And this one." She stretched and plucked an insect out of the air. "This one is a mayfly. You can tell them from as far as you can see them. The caddis flies as if it knows where it's going. The mayfly looks like maybe it will go this way; or maybe it will go that way."

Ingrid was delighted with the shimmery beauty of the little mayfly.

"Hold out your hand," commanded Catchie.

Ingrid did as she was told and Catchie dropped a feathery little artificial fly onto her palm. Like a sculpture made of feathers, the little masterpiece captured not only the look, but the spirit of the real insect.

Catchie opened a fly box from her vest. Like rows of gems in a jewel case, tiny little tan flies with gold or silver beads for heads sparkled in the sunbeams. Catchie, the genie, took out several more flies –delicate tiny pearl-gray ones, and emerald-green ones, and ivory-colored ones, all made from deer or elk  hair, all giving the impression of tiny, tent-shaped wings.

Granting her unspoken wish, Catchie lined up one of each on Ingrid's hand.

"Now, which one do you think will catch you a fish?"

How to choose? How to choose?

Catchie gently pinned the flies one after another onto Ingrid's hat.

"I have bent all the barbs on the hooks flat, so you will have no trouble getting them off when you need them. Now, which one do you want to try first?  The caddis which matches this one hiding here in the shade?"

Catchie bent down and showed Ingrid the parade of insects lining the stems of the bushes overhanging the stream.

"If you look downstream, you will see there is a lovely hatch of mayflies headed our way."

Ingrid had not noticed that the air over the river was shimmering with flying insects. Thousands of graceful mayflies were circling in the air over the water, seemingly without sound and without weight.

Catchie well understood the look of wonder on Ingrid's face.

"A quiet miracle," she said. "Maybe you will want to put on the Ingrid Special which matches the mayfly?"

Ingrid nodded happily, and they tied it onto her line. At last, they were going to do some fishing.

Or catching.

"We were fishing all morning, weren't we?" Ingrid asked shyly. "Now we are going to do catching."

 A small trout came to the surface and nibbled her fly. She gave her rod a push up to the sky just as she had seen Catchie do. She was so excited she pulled the fly right out of the fish's mouth.

"Oh, come, little fish. I won't hurt you," Ingrid sang.

She cast out carefully and made the fly dance on the water just as Catchie had showed her.  Then with all her might, she willed the fish to take it. When a medium-sized trout did swirl up, Ingrid set the hook more carefully. At first, she thought she had just imagined she felt a fish, but then, there it was! The rod tip bent, and zigged, and zagged. And then was still.

What happened? Why had she lost the fish? Well, she had caught it, for a while at least. Such fun! Ingrid smiled and cast again. Catchie smiled.

"Oh, come pretty fish; I won't hurt you," Ingrid sang again. Once more the little fly stopped its downstream floating and disappeared in a blink. Ingrid could not really say she set the hook, but there it was, a great and living weight at the other end of her line.

A handsome silvery trout broke the surface with a loud splash.

"Oh!"

The beautiful fish turned and dove. Wouldn't Andy be surprised! What would her father say when he saw this wonderful fish? Ingrid wanted that fish with all her heart.  As Catchie watched, the fish leapt again, more like a salmon than a trout.

"Oh," cried Ingrid in dismay as she realized that the leaping fish was no longer attached to her line. That flip of the tail was good bye.

***

Catchie had rigged her  rod and waded into the stream, busy with her own fishing. Ingrid watched her teacher's heron-like movements and vowed to herself to copy them as she tossed her fly again and again upon the waters. Fishing was fishing, but catching was something else, she told herself.

"Oh, fish, come take my fly one more time, and I promise I'll let you go," she sang ever so softly, but she knew she would not see that fish again.

The sun was very low in the sky and it was surely dinner time when Catchie and Ingrid galumph-kahskwooshed back towards camp.

Ingrid picked up two empty soft-drink cans and tucked them into her pack to take home for recycling.

"Good girl!" said Catchie.

"If I don't do it, who will?" said the little girl solemnly.

Galumph, kahskwoosh. Galumph, kahskwoosh.

"That was a fine fish you had," Catchie said eventually.

Ingrid smiled with pride. She didn't feel she had to say anything.  Galumph-kahskwoosh was the only sound as the two made their way along the fishermen's path.

"And another thing I like about fish is that they don't leave any footprints," said Catchie.

Ingrid nodded and felt very wise.

"Catching is the easy part," said Catchie as they came to the last turn in the trail before the cabin. She waved and called over her shoulder, "It's learning how to let go that's hard. I'll see my prize pupil tomorrow for Lesson Number Three."

Ingrid nodded. She could tell that Catchie was pleased with her, and that made her glad. Even if she didn't have the handsome fish.

Once again, the little family slept on the river bank, and Ingrid dreamed of her fish. She woke from time to time and listened to the night noises. She was awake to see it when the half-moon sliding down the sky crossed directly over the river. The moon path on the water looked like silvery fish scales. The next time Ingrid opened her eyes the moon, had sunk beneath the waters. Trout were jumping all night long.

Ingrid was up bright and early the next morning, taking her sourdough pancake down to the river bank to eat. Mist was still rising off the water.  Way down at the bend in the river she could see a great blue heron standing in the water, fishing. She was also quite sure that she could see two green wool socks hanging in a willow tree. They seemed to be dancing gently in the breeze.

Ingrid once again sent her father and brother off together. And as soon as her chores were done, she took down the fishing rod and hurried off to find Catchie MacRae. 

Catchie was not in the stream. Ingrid found her at the meadow's edge, where Catchie was poking holes in the rich dirt with her wading staff. Into each hole she dropped a seed from one pocket or another of her vest.

"People who haven't grown up in the country don't seem to know yet that you have to keep shade trees growing over the streams or the waters get too warm for trout. Also butterfly caterpillars have to have the right leaves to eat, and the caddis flies have to have bushes to hide in. The new people cut everything down, put up big houses, and sit on their new chemistry-set lawns fretting that the fishing isn't as good as it used to be and wondering where all the butterflies have gone."

Ingrid followed along after Catchie who was tamping seeds down into the small holes she was making.

"The people will eventually learn. I just figure it's a good idea to help out in the meantime. If I don't do it, who will?"

"I will," said Ingrid, and she accepted Catchie's lace handkerchief filled with seeds as if it held gold dust.

Catchie purred in the early morning sunshine, leaning on her wading staff, watching Ingrid punch holes and fill them. When the little girl had finished the whole row along the bottom of the meadow, she came dancing back through the flowers, glowing with accomplishment.

"You know, Ingrid, sometimes we have too many strings on us pulling every which way. When I don’t know what to do, I ask myself that question: If I don’t do it, who will?  If the answer is that someone else will do it, I let them. Then I can put my energy into doing something else that would not have gotten done. "

Ingrid nodded so wisely that Catchie almost laughed.

"I think it’s time to go wash our socks, don’t you? " said Catchie.

***

Ingrid looked up and down the stream, but she did not see any hatch of insects hovering over the water. What fly should she use now, she wondered?

Catchie took out her fly box and helped Ingrid tie on one the little gold-beaded ones.

"This is a nymph," Catchie explained. "It is just like the caterpillar of a butterfly, only the creatures we're interested in spend their immature stages in the water, so we call them nymphs, after the daughters of Neptune."

She waded in and turned over a stone or two. When she found what she was looking for, she showed Ingrid.

"This big, crawly one is a stonefly. Trout love them. This little wiggly one with the three tails is a baby mayfly. And, believe it or not, this pretty little tube is hiding a caddis fly nymph."

Ingrid peered closely. She could see that the tube was made of tiny sand grains cleverly fitted together like a mosaic.

"The little caddis made that. Some other kinds of caddis make their cases out of twigs glued together, a sort of caddis log cabin. Isn't that quite wonderful? When you don't see any of the adult flies over the water, you can try fishing with a nymph. Under the water where you can't see, there may be many, many nymphs coming out of their safe hiding places, milling around, getting ready for a big event. They are going to split out of their skins and emerge from the water as lovely flying insects. It's sort of like going to a party –they all want to arrive at the same time so they can have a good time together. But many of them end up being the hors d'oeuvres at the party."   

Ingrid tossed her nymph enthusiastically out into the water, singing,"Come on little fish. Here's a nice tidbit for you."

Wham! A fish hit. Oh, dear. Ingrid wasn't really quite ready to catch a fish, and she knew before she struck that she did not have one on her line. Here, today, she was supposed to learn to land a fish. That tangled tackle box feeling came over her and she had to blink back the tears.

"Don't worry," soothed Catchie. "We know where there are other nice fish. But you do have to remember always that you might get what you wish for."

Ingrid shot her teacher a quizzical look as they waded together up the stream. Catchie was always talking in riddles, and Ingrid always felt she almost understood. What fun it was to have such a friend! 

When they reached a lovely pool by an overhanging log, Catchie suggested "Why don't you try dropping your fly in the water way up here, so it will sink by the time it reaches the log?"

"Somebody big might live down there?" asked Ingrid, but she knew it was not really a question.

She cast her fly, then leaned over, pulling in the slack as quick as lightning. She tended her line as watchfully as a spider waiting in its web. There, right there, the line paused. Up went the rod.

There was the fish. The line felt electric. Ingrid saw the silvery-golden gleam of the big trout's belly as it turned to rid itself of the mysterious nuisance that was her hook.

"Oh, yes, handsome fish!"

Ingrid looked to Catchie for further instructions, but she only smiled and nodded. "You're doing fine. Just keep the rod tip up so the rod does all the work."

Ingrid loved that nobody was shouting at her, telling her how she should handle her own fishing. She pretended she was very calm. She saw herself as Catchie, holding her rod high in tight connection with the fish she could not see.

"That's right. Nice and easy, so he isn't frightened of the big, fierce girl.

Now you can bring him in; he's getting tired. We don't want him to get too tired.

Lean down and wet your hand so if you have to touch him you won't hurt his protective layer of slime.

Very nicely done, Ingrid.

Yes, lift him up and we'll just back the hook out of his jaw.

Oh, isn't he lovely.

There, now, you can hold him gently in the water till he gets his wits back about him. Just let him lie on your hands. See his gills working as he catches his breath?            

Oop! There he goes. He's all right now.

Yodelay. Yodeloo!"

***

Ingrid looked at her hands as if not quite believing they had held the trout. She was trembling with excitement. She raised her hand to her face and smelled the faint, distinctive fishy smell the trout had left behind.

Catchie checked Ingrid's fly, flipped it out on the water again, and took off fishing on her own.

Ingrid wafted her line back over her shoulder a few times to dry it off, her back cast carrying line out farther and farther and farther.

Whap! Ingrid felt a sharp bite on her cheek. She had hooked herself. She reached up to pull the hook but it would not come free. She twisted and twisted and tried to be brave but finally the tears overflowed. She reeled in the coils of line at her feet and waded off to find Catchie.

"Oh,Catchie," Ingrid wailed, turning her little cheek up for Catchie's inspection.

"There, there. That's not so bad," Catchie said gently, putting one hand under Ingrid's chin and nudging the fly expertly with her other. "Hmmm. You're really caught. Just a jiffy now. This will hurt a bit I'm afraid."       

Ingrid stood bravely. She tried not to wonder if this was how a trout might feel. As Catchie backed the hook out Ingrid felt a warm trickle of blood on her cheek. Catchie dabbed it away with her crumpled lace hankie. Light as a butterfly Catchie's lips brushed the hurt in a kiss that made it better. She lifted Ingrid's teary face and smiled into her eyes.

"Will I have a scar?" asked Ingrid hopefully.

Catchie chuckled and gave Ingrid a little pat on the shoulder.

"I think maybe we could use a little snack after all the excitement," said Catchie, choosing a big rock to settle on. She pulled out some cold pancakes, and the two of them sat and nibbled.

"Catchie, do you ever use worms?"

"I used to, but the trouble with worms is that the trout tend to swallow the hook, and then you cannot choose to let them go.  Now, I tie flies to look like worms or minnows. That's more fun for me –and for the worms."

A kingfisher came winging by, low over the center of the stream. He let Catchie and Ingrid know by his clattering call that he felt they were intruding on his private fishing spot.

"Catchie, was mine a very big fish?"

"Oh, I'd say it was about a medium-big fish."

"Catchie, why do people always think you're better if you catch the biggest fish? You can't see how big it is until after you've caught it."

"I think it's left over from the time when people didn't know how much is enough. Now that there are so many of us, we'll be readjusting what we think our share of everything is. But it will take a while to change our views."

Ingrid thought that over for a while. When she looked satisfied, Catchie added mischievously, "Of course, the bigger fish are the older ones, and everybody knows that older is wiser."  

"Do you always let them go?" asked Ingrid refusing to be drawn into that trap.

"No. I remember once when I was your age, I caught fifty fish one morning, and I kept them all. My grandfather helped me clean them and the whole family had them for supper that night.

"I wish I could do that someday."

"Sometime, you probably will. I was catching perch that day. If you go to a pond and find lots and lots of small fish like bluegills you know it's all right to keep fish. There are more fish than there is food, so none of them can grow up to be big."

"How about trout? I like them best."

"So do I. They have such high standards. However, you're not as likely to find a place with too many trout. You will find that wherer there are special regulations on trout fishing streams, they are usually set so that there are as many good-sized fish as possible. As long as people who catch them release them, there ought to be enough fish for the next person who comes along."

"Does it sstill hurt the trout?" asked Ingrid touching her cheek.

"I won't tell you that they like to be caught" laughed Catchie. "You have to treat them respectfully. There is certainly a limit to how many times they can stand to be caught, and how many fishermen can wade through their living rooms. You don't blame them for that do you?"

***

"Catchie, if you don't think the trout really like to be caught, and you love the trout, how can you bear to catch them, even if you release them?"

"I have to know they're out there. It's the only way I can keep on doing things that need to be done that no one else is going to do."

Ingrid reached out and speared a soft-drink can with her wading stick. She dropped it into their knapsack. "Catch and release is like reuse and recycle, isn't it?  You could wait to grow another fish to take the place of the one you take home, or you can let it go. You could make a new container for the next soft drink, or you can refill your  water bottle over and over again."

"You remind me, Ingrid, that older is not always wiser. Your generation seems to understand that message better than some of the older generation."

Catchie studied the few insects circling over the water and looked through her vest pockets.

"Ingrid, I think we might want to try something different. Let's take one of these little caddis fluffs and trim it down. We'll give it a hair cut." She made a few deft snips with the clippers.

"And then, we'll tie on a wisp of soft grouse hackle feather. The trout can think that's swimming legs. This is not a pretty fly with a fancy name. In fact it is both ugly and unconventional. Maybe it's a nymph coming up to the surface to emerge. Maybe it's an adult struggling down to lay her eggs on the stream bottom. Who knows what the trout will think.  But let's see if this Ugly Monster works."

Ingrid was thrilled. She knew this was going to be good.

They each put on an Ugly Monster, and Catchie had a fish on in just a few

casts. Zing! Hum! Music on the stream.

Zing! Ingrid had a fish on. A huge fish. He showed Ingrid his belly and started to streak for cover.

"Oh, no you don't," Ingrid cried and splashed over to the gravel bar between the fish and the log. She held her rod to the sky. She felt as if her line and even her arms  were aglow with the voltage of excitement.

"Stay, stay, fishy. I promise I won't hurt you," she sang.

The fish leapt in the air. Ingrid could see by the rich wash of color on his side that it was a rainbow trout, a big, fat, healthy one.

"Oh, beautiful fish, let me look at you."

The big fish hung stubbornly in the current. Ingrid could see pale marks on its back. Talon marks from an osprey or an eagle? How much she wanted to show this fish to Andy and her father!

Ingrid reached down her clear, thin leader as far as she could and gave her line a quick twist. The fish came free.

"I'll know you, old scar-back, if I ever see you again," she sang.

"Yodelay, yodeloo," came drifting up the stream.

Before long Catchie came soundlessly gliding up to Ingrid's side.

"Catchie, did you see? I caught a huge, wonderful fish. And I let him go all by myself without even touching him."

"Yes, I did. Congratulations, girl who sings to the fishes. It takes a far-seeing vision to look into the future and see what happens if everybody lets their finest fishes go.  It takes a big heart with enough love to know that all the other fishers will let theirs go too. Congratulations, Ingrid. You've learned casting so well that your brother will be surprised, and your father will be proud.  You have begun to learn how to see fish and how to catch them."

Ingrid beamed at her funny, wise friend in the rosebud hat.

"It's learning how to let go that's the hardest part," Ingrid said proudly.

Catchie nodded in agreement. "How true. How true. " She checked Ingrid's fly and tossed it on the water.  

Ingrid began to fish again, but her mind was not entirely on what she was doing. She was thinking about her wonderful fish. She knew that tomorrow she would give the Ugly Monster to her brother. And she wanted him to see old scar-back, too. She turned to tell Catchie about the talon marks, but the old woman had waded quietly away.

Telling her father and her brother that evening all about her adventures was every bit as happy a time as Ingrid had hoped. She showed them how she could cast. She gave Andy the Ugly Monster.

Next morning, Ingrid found a piece of river jade on the picnic table next to her jar of roses. Although she did not see any socks hanging in the willow tree, the heron was fishing in its usual spot.

Several times, Ingrid thought she heard a melody with more notes than the birds used. And once she thought she heard words above the singing stream:

"Yodelay, yodelooo,

Letting go is hard to do.

Fish in the stream will be there still.

If I don't do it, who else will? "

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