Timing the Strike

Green River Virgins is a collection of stories about a new breed of fly fishers, mostly women, none of whom wear tweed or smoke a pipe.

Among these passionate anglers are a closet fly fisher, whose biological clock is ticking, and an awkward schoolgirl who secretly raises coho fry. One woman struggles in denial over her impending blindness, and an old-timer gracefully accepts being crowded off his home water. There is the irresistible hustler, Brooke E. Trout, and a guide who has "barhopped and backslapped her way right out of the female race."

Serious or hilarious, these are probing stories about anglers with enormous appetites for rivers and for fishing and for life, written by an author who everywhere displays her intimate knowledge of fly fishing, its language and mores.

Mallory Burton was born in Boston but for the past 15 years has worked on the north coast of BC as a linguist, teacher, and Regional Coordinator for Special Education and Technology. She is a passionate fly fisher year-round for salmon and steelhead near her home, and in Montana during the summers.

Mallory's stories have appeared in The Fly Fisher, Fly Rod & Reel, and Fly Fishing. She is the author of one previous book, Reading the Water, and lives in Prince Rupert.

By the time I turned 30, I'd realized two important things. One, I had to fish. Two, I had to work for a living. That's why I took a job at the Skeena Brewery in northern British Columbia. And that's how I came to attend this union meeting.

So far, so good. I've survived the reading of the minutes and two additions to the evening's agenda. I'm just beginning to wonder whether I remembered to apply the head cement to my last batch of steelhead flies when the committee chairman suddenly leans across the table and extends his hand. He doesn't look like a fly fisher. Dinger maybe. One of those guys who sits in a lawn chair, rod planted in the ground, a bell at the tip to signal a fish. Definitely not a fly fisher.

"Mac McTavish," he announces. "I chair this union's bargaining committee. And you are…"

"Jessica Davidson. I'm new in the accounting department." McTavish makes the introductions all around. The other members seem to know each other.

"New blood, eh? What brings you up north?"

"Fish," I say. "Salmon and steelhead."

"Fish, eh? Don't fish myself. Get all the fish I need in the frozen food section." The others nod. "If you don't mind me asking, Ms. Davidson, what exactly is your interest in union politics?"

"I haven't the slightest interest in union politics," I confess. To tell the truth, the idea of attending a union meeting is about as appealing to me as hooking a whitefish in the eye.

"According to my department head, I inherited a membership on the committee along with my new position. I'd describe myself as a moderate. I might be useful in balancing the radical element, though,"

McTavish frowns. "Perhaps you'll change your mind after you've heard what our speakers have to say," he suggests. I promise to keep an open mind.

When the floor is turned over to the speakers, the meeting does take a more serious turn. Tempers emerge. I hear language that would have come in handy when I lost my first steelhead of the season.

I really have no idea what they are going on about. I suppose I should be paying closer attention to the proceedings, but it's difficult to concentrate. After all, the peak of the steelhead run is just a week away. I glance surreptitiously at the cover of the fishing magazine in my lap.

There are photographs of steelhead, excellent photographs, in this magazine. There is an especially handsome fish on the cover. The picture captures the fish's size and a hint of its color and strength. But the photograph is nothing like the real thing, because hooking a steelhead is mainly a physical and not a visual experience.

Go down to the railroad tracks and wait for the next train. Cast to it and watch the line peel off your spool. That's what it's like to have a steelhead at the end of a fly rod.

You stand for hours, days, in the icy water waiting for the fish. First your fingers, then your legs, then your brains go numb as you wait. You cast, you mend, you drift, you strip. You take three steps downstream and do it again. You do it a thousand times.

The first take sends a slow, solid pull up your arm that builds until it nearly wrenches the rod away. The pull draws you out of your numbed trance. The screeching sound you hear is the reel. You don't recognize it, because the reel has never made quite that sound before. The fish leaps, silver and iridescent. The power you feel on the end of your line couldn't possibly be compacted into that sleek body. But it is.

You glance down. The line flying off the reel is a green blur, then a white blur. Fifty yards of backing are gone. Unthinking, you grab the line. It takes an instant for the pain to register, searing hot through your frozen fingers to the bone. You let it go. It goes. All of it. When you see the bare spool and the knot, you point the rod downstream. You brace yourself for the jolt. It is considerable, but nothing compared to the emotional impact of losing the fish. You are too stunned to be merely angry or disappointed.

You want it to happen again. The only problem now is time. It is November, and the snow has started to fall in the higher elevations. The steelhead season may last through December. Or it may end tonight. A blizzard followed by a rain could put the temperamental Copper out for the rest of the year.

"Ms. Davidson …Davidson! You've got to make a decision!" McTavish glares and pounds on the table with his fist. "What's it going to be?" he demands.

"Huh?" I'm thinking of switching to the Green Butt Skunk, or maybe the Riffle Dancer.

"Which way do you vote? This committee is trying to decide whether to recommend a strike for the union. It stands at five in favor, five against."

I cast, I mend, I drift, I strip. I take three steps downstream and do it all again.

"We're waiting!" The others nod emphatically.

It is growing dark, and the snow is beginning to fall. Time is running out. There is a movement behind the fly, a miss, another slash. He takes it. I wait a heartbeat, watching him turn. My fist clenches tightly around the grip. Slowly I raise my arm.

"Strike!" I shout. "Strike now."

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