Sometimes the stories we remember most are of the ones that got away...
I was fishing on the Rio de los Pinos one beautiful July afternoon. Typical of this high mountain terrain are afternoon thunderstorms in the summer months. You learn to live with them, and really, even learn to enjoy the cooling effects of a nice afternoon rain.
I had only fished this river once before, so I was still in that search mode - looking and learning about how the trout behave here, where they hold and what they eat. I was fishing a riffle section and picking up a few small browns and brookies on dries. The clouds had moved in while I was fishing this section and it started to rain gently.
At the bottom of this riffle the stream pooled out just upstream of a small forest service bridge. On the far bank was a jam of branches wedged against one of the bridge pilings creating some nice cover. A the rain picked up, I changed over to a nymph rig to dredge through this hole. I thought that I'd get a few drifts and then head back to my car and eat lunch until the storm passed. The rain got going fairly heavy, and on what was to be my last drift the indicator stopped. I set, and "oh, man," the line started moving under the bridge. I applied pressure first to the side and then upstream, and turned him around. I knew it was big, very big. I had a 5x tippet on, so I could apply some solid pressure.
"CA-RACCCKKK."
Whoa. The sound of the lightning ricocheted off the walls of the narrow canyon. "I've got to apply more pressure right now" I thought. I flexed the rod hard to move him across the pool, and the line snapped. It was pouring by now; half rain, half hail, so I quickly reeled in. I made my way to small stand of pines and crouched down underneath, out of the rain, and I sulked for fifteen minutes until the storm passed.
When the rain stopped, I went back to the pool. I looked, but knew it was pointless to try again. He had won.
I never saw him, but I won't forget that fish.
