By late June, the Gnome had grown bored of the small fish he was catching. He had a successful spring season and caught and cooked his fill of the local fare—he’d smoked spry trout, fried fat panfish, boiled mudbugs, and even pickled some suckers—but he was hungry for something more.
So, as the summer sun grew mean and the creek thinned to a muttering ribbon, the Gnome got to thinking about going up to higher country for cooler temperatures and bigger fish. He’d heard tales of an ancient, uncatchable fish. And that seemed like the perfect adventure for an apathetic old gnome.
Apparently, the beast resided in the high alpine of the Obsidian Mountains and moved between lakes through the streams that connect them. Folks who claim to have seen it said it looks like a dragon or a massive serpent slithering over the rocks in the skinny, gin-clear water.
It had been described as a “megalodon,” though no one agrees on what that means. Some said it was a relic from before the last ice. Others claimed it was just a fish that got smart and kept growing, fattened up on brook trout, ducklings, and the occasional marmot or deer fawn that ventured too close to the water’s edge.
Regardless of the fish’s name, the gnome could use a challenge; his mind had grown stagnant, fishing for the same old fish in the same old spots. He decided to start packing his bag. But first, he had to figure out what he could even catch the elusive monster with.
He’d taken to tying flies in the colder months, but this outing would require something new. He sat at his vice and stared for a long while before he reached for the biggest size hook in his arsenal and set to tying. He worked late into the night, but once the moon was high, he had a few giant flies to show for it.
One was streamer heavy enough to sink into the darkest depths of a mountain lake with flash and fur and an articulating action that could entice any aquatic predator. The next one he tied was a dry fly as big as a crow with feathers from his spring turkey, fall ducks, and pheasant. Lastly, he made a grotesque grub as big as his forearm that he could nymph on the bottom—not his favorite method of fishing, but a good angler always has options.
The next morning, the Gnome set out on the foothills and wound his way up to the meadows that lay at the feet of the craggy peaks. There, a river snaked through the lush green of the meadow, breaking apart the verdant scene with a single split of turquoise.
As he approached it, he noticed a bend that cut deep into the bank. Its waters turned dark, almost black in the depths of the oxbow—the perfect place for a monster to lurk.
So the Gnome pieced together his fly rod and chose the streamer pattern from his ludicrously large fly box. He tied it on and tested the knot with all his strength. The thick tippet held, and the Gnome was satisfied.
In the first cast, the streamer landed with a resounding thwack against the Gnome’s back. Luckily, the barb didn’t sink into his skin, and he easily untangled himself. The fly was too dang heavy to cast, but he tried again, using a double haul to get his line out. This time, the fly hit the water with a satisfying splash. The Gnome let it sink, then began to strip it in slowly, working the action of the fly. He continued like this for about an hour, but with no bites, he decided to move on up the meadow.
He stopped in a bit of shade and ate some dried fruit, nuts, and jerky for lunch while admiring the view of the towering peaks all around him. He stopped cracking walnuts when he thought he heard something in the water. Not the consistent babble and bubble he’d listened to all day, but an alien splashing.
He looked down the stream to see an armoured head, bigger than his own, barely breaking the surface and pushing upstream. It looked like a warship, cruising against the current without struggle, the rhythmic swayings of its tail propelled it onwards.
The Gnome reached for this flybox and, as quickly as he could, tied the mammoth dry fly on the end of the line. He cast a few times and dropped the fly an arm’s length in front of the cruising brute’s path.
In a flash, the fish opened its gaping maw, engulfed the mess of feathers, and in one liquid movement, disappeared below the surface. The Gnome braced himself, and the line began to hum out of his reel. He doubted this fish had even been hooked before, but it sure didn’t like the sensation of it because once it realized the line was attached to it, the beast started shaking its massive head and pulling line faster and faster. The drag screamed in an effort to slow the roll, but the line still slipped through the Gnome’s calloused grip, slicing thin and deep into his flesh.
The Gnome was running down the bank alongside the monster, trying his best to make some headway, but every time he reeled down a few inches, the fish would writhe in protest. It tailed out of the water like a tarpon, gnashed its razor-sharp teeth together, and shook its head like a bull facing down a matador.
Then the fish took off on a run down the stream like a cannonball. Before the Gnome realized it, he was past the backing and completely spooled. His rod took on the full weight of the brute, bent over like a question mark, and began to splinter at the apex. He ran toward the fish to try to keep up, but it was faster. With a tremendous leap into the air, the massive fish thrashed and spat the wad of feathers and hook out into the stream, leaving the Gnome awestruck, gasping for air on the shore.
The leviathan slipped into the shadows of the stream, and the Gnome didn’t see it again. He wiped his bloody palm on his britches and stared at the water in reverence. It’d be wary of his flies for a while, but he’d craft some new ones this winter and come back the following summer with a heavier rod and longer line to see if he could tempt the son of a gun again.
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