About half way back to Big Pants, I realized that the trek was much more treacherous than anticipated. Some of the shady spots on the trail were still frozen, while other locations that caught the sun had become ankle deep ooze. There was a small section of trail that had fallen thirty feet into the raging river below, and another that would have plummeted for sure under one step if a person chose to make that fatal mistake. The river itself was more swollen than usual with brownish run-off from a winter's worth of Western New York snowmelt. The thunderous drone of exploding water convulsing in massive gyrations made my heart pound with the fear that I really shouldn't be doing this — especially alone.

Upon arriving at my destination, I pulled out a rope, strung it to the base of a tree, and then held on to slide my way to the river's edge. I had passed several better places to fish along the trail. So why, I thought, was it so important to get to Big Pants? The conclusion was simple: Just for the challenge of it. Not unlike a skateboarder or a bungy jumper, sometimes the appreciation of life is much sweeter when one is pushed to the limit. And since I don't make it a common practice to live on the edge, even at my age I understand the value of the lesson learned as one ventures outside a zone of comfort. Standing next to the river, I shivered. It scared the hell out of me.

Coming to my senses, I examined the situation. In that immense volume of water, there were only a few fishable windows within the swirls to swing one's fly close to shore. Landing a steelhead would be impossible unless the fish could be dragged to a small patch of slack above the drift. Accordingly, I attached an orange globug to twenty-pound test tippet with enough strength, if needed, to muscle the quarry upriver. For some reason, I don't like to fish with two flies. But on this day a white bunny spey was added on an eight-inch dropper tied to the bend of the globug — just for extra measure. The logic behind this move seemed obvious. I figured it would appear that the bait imitation was chasing an egg, thus readily attracting the attention of any unsuspecting steelhead. Although the bunny spey had been tied onto a stout saltwater hook with a pinched barb, I felt the need to sharpen the point before sending it into the depths. Once ready, the eight-weight line was stripped off the reel and with one flip, the rig rolled into the roiling rampage. It took several tries before gaining the right feel. After three casts a steelhead boiled to the surface in one of the huge swells. The wind had shifted; so its chilling fury was blocked a bit, and the sky had become a slate-gray wash during the hike. All things considered, it was turning out to be a perfect steelhead kind of day.

When a fish grabbed my fly after only ten minutes of effort, I was stunned. The relentless roar of the river then took on an ominous sense of urgency. "Do not chase it!" I shouted to remind myself not to make a stupid decision if the fish decided to bolt down river. Fortunately, the steelhead showed no interest in retreating to the indescribable dynamo of unfathomable power below my position. It just sat like a bowling ball in the broken current near the drop off. At that point the only strategy was to deliberately haul the weighty creature up into the slower backwash. The tactic worked; and once there, the fight began. It was a toe to toe, drawn-out slugfest. At one point the fish came into full view, and it was a colorful, big-headed, heavy-backed male of at least twelve pounds. The egg pattern was firmly attached to the jaw with the bunny spey dangling behind. The battle was give and take for a while, but ultimately the cold water quelled the enthusiasm of the rather hefty buck. From where I was standing, there was only one location to land the fish upon the slick, angular rip-rap, and it was precarious. When the time came, the only option was to put one foot on the ledge in the river and firmly plant the knee of my other leg upon the shore between the rocks. It was critical to keep my center of balance directed toward land. So as the gorgeous male inched toward my hand, I grabbed the leader and reached for the globug.

At that exact instant the steelhead took off. The leader broke just above the globug. Immediately, something else went terribly wrong. In the same motion the trailing bunny spey buried itself in the middle finger of my left hand. It was only then that I remembered why I don't like using a dropper. My center of balance was also jostled off center, but I quickly readjusted and held on for dear life. Since the leader connecting the fly in the fish's mouth to the fly stuck in the digit on my left hand could not be reached without falling in, the only choice was to fight the twelvepounder again - this time with my finger. It was a tug-o-war. The devilish fish was pulling me toward the jaws of hell, and I was hanging on by a fingernail. The fly had scraped bone and lodged into the meaty portion of my appendage, but the cold water made my hand numb. I felt nothing. This part of the fight lasted for a few minutes until the mighty rainbow was slowly brought into the range where I was able to secure it and remove the egg pattern from its maw in one death-defying lunge. The fish eagerly swam away.

Examining the damage to my left hand, I discovered that it wasn't too bad. But upon trying to back the fly out of my finger, it appeared there was still a bit of a hump left behind after pinching the barb on the #2 saltwater hook. It would not retreat. So with one thrust I pushed the hook through the fleshy portion of the finger below the first knuckle. It didn't hurt. Not really. Well, maybe just a little. Okay, so I nearly passed out. But I quickly came to my senses — as if my life depended upon it. The hook then needed to be snipped with wire cutters and removed, but my pliers were nowhere to be found. The fish were on the take and I had a giant fly sprouting from my finger like an ornament on a Christmas tree! Undaunted, I walked back to the same spot where the steelhead took, made one cast, and then visualized the possible consequences of my actions if another fish took off down river after some excess fly line wrapped around the protruding bait pattern planted in my finger. It could have been shock, but the very thought made me shiver one more time.

The hike back was as perilous as the effort it took to get to Big Pants in the first place. But fatigue had set in; consequently, the return seemed much longer.
Additionally, the fly grabbed every branch along the path as my digit began to swell. But there was something more going on inside my head. I looked out to the river that I have loved all my life and realized how the slow creep of age was starting to take its toll on my body. There was a touch of sadness, too, as I reflected upon the day's incident. No longer the spry and limber angler that I still envision wading the rivers of my mind, I reluctantly considered the implications of what else could have happened on this "audacious" afternoon. That sobering thought guided me back to the parking lot.

Upon my arrival I immediately noticed a few folded papers pinned against the windshield of my pick-up. But first things first. It was straight to the toolbox for the needle-nose pliers. Once the stainless steel shank was clipped, the remaining metal neatly slipped back through the puncture. No different than a body piercing, I surmised.

Grappling with the thought of heading back to the river, I started to read the printed matter left under my wipers. It was a sermon that must have been placed there by the previously mentioned lady who apparently took it upon herself to be my guardian angel for the day. The Devil's Deadline! was the title of the piece that included all the details of what the devil had in store for those of us who strayed too far from the fold. It even included numerous quotes from the Scriptures to back up the claims. "Woe to the inhabiters of the earth and of sea! For the devil is come down unto you, having great wrath, because he knoweth he hath but a short time." Revelations 12:12

With all due respect, I am not a great believer of reading excerpts from the Bible since, among other considerations, they are selectively relevant and blatantly self-serving to those rely upon them. I recently read a passage from Leviticus 19:27-28 stating something to the effect that trimming your hair or beard or having a tattoo deserves death. Phew! No tattoos for me, but I'd sure be in trouble with the Bible police concerning my beard. There is, in fact, nothing worse than those who back up pompous righteousness with a quote from the Bible. The Good Book even warns its readers against not falling into that trap, but somehow those quotes go unnoticed. In this case, however, my newfound friend was a well-intentioned soul, and I appreciated the fact that she had my best eternal interests in mind. After reading a few more warnings about the devil's plan for each and everyone of us, I decided not to push my luck. That dance with Lucifer on the bank of the lower Niagara in the shadow of Devil's Hole was as close as I'd like to get for a while. I then hopped into my truck and headed for the nearest doughnut shop. Along the way I wondered if they made big pants for a guy in his late fifties.

In my mind, I had earned a pair.