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fishing... some of life's best moments are spent this way |
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All
I'd ever known were spinning rods. I grew up learning jigs, steel leaders,
swivels. From my father, and from his father before him, the lore was
passed down and none of it ever included the cycle of may flies or the
technique of dry versus wet. And so when I moved from the coast to landlocked
Colorado, just the thought of fly fishing was too intimidating for me. However,
over time even I could tell where a fly might do the trick when my lures
wouldn't. But I didn't cross to the other side of the tracks right away.
At first, I just read about it. And then, in the fishing department when
no one was looking, I'd sneak over to the fly rods and hold one in my
hands. It was my guilty little secret--- as a third-generation spin caster,
how could I betray my roots? I'd put the rod back and quickly walk away.
When
I finally broke down and got my first fly rod, I experienced both dread
and eagerness at the thought of learning a different way to fish. I still
didn't have spin fishing down and I'd been doing it all my life. How could
I manage a completely new technique? I
took a beginner's fly fishing course. I learned to fling the colored yarn
tied at the end of the line into the water. It never went far but at least
it went. I read more books, practiced my casting in the backyard. I even
had a friend attempt to teach me, but he gave up in mildly-disguised frustration. Time
went on, and though I usually stuck with the spinning rod, every now and
then I'd try the fly rod. If I started making perfect loops with the line,
I'd get so excited that the whole thing would collapse. The single biggest
lesson I learned was to avoid any nearby bushes or low-hanging trees.
Otherwise, the only thing I'd catch were branches. I lost a lot of flies
that way. In
the first year I picked up the fly rod, I tried it out in a number of
places: South Dakota, California, British Columbia, the Yukon, even the
Northwest Territories. And I did catch several fish but none of any size,
and certainly nothing that made me feel accomplished at what I was doing.
Quite frankly, I was embarrassed for the fish. I decided that what I needed
to do was catch a fly fisherman's fish: a rainbow trout of at least 12".
I lived in Colorado at the time and so one day early in July I took myself
to Taylor Park Reservoir, just south of Aspen. I went fully prepared with
several spinning rods of various weights and, of course, my fly rod. I
even bought some hand-tied flies at the lodge where I checked in for my
cabin. I still didn't know what the hell I was doing, but I was hopeful. The
reservoir feeds into Taylor Creek and that's where I headed. Walking beside
it, I saw several fly fisherman hip-deep in the water, monster rainbows
circling around them. Perfect, I figured. Now I just had to find a spot
where nobody could see me cast or else their laughter might scare the
fish away. I
found the right place and set my equipment down. It was evening, and the
sun was already disappearing. I chose a dry fly as the fish were already
jumping and in my spinning lingo figured a top-water bait would be best.
I'd once heard a professional fly fisherman say that he'd seen a woman
beat out all the men by using a fly that was predominantly white. He couldn't
explain what was so special about white, but he'd added it to his fly
box and it had done well for him. I figured it might work for this woman
too, and so I tied one to the end of my line. I
had already made several roll casts into the middle of the current when
I saw a head rise out of the water and crush my fly. Disappearing first
underwater, the trout then leapt through the air before diving deep and
racing downstream. My 9' rod bent sharply and as the line paid out, the
reel sang its sweetest song. "I'm
doing it!" I thought to myself. "I've got a real fish on!"
I almost didn't care if I lost it at that point, but the dance went on
until the end. And it was the most beautiful rainbow trout I'd ever seen:
16" long, its colors shimmering brightly and with a big, round belly.
I felt such joy that as I released the fish, I hoped it would be no worse
for having been caught. And neither was I embarrassed on its behalf. It
was getting dark and time to leave, but I was satisfied, having finally
caught my first real fish on a fly rod. That
was a few years ago. Now I live on the water and still occasionally cross
the tracks to do my best impression of a real fly fisherman. I continue
to lose my share of flies, but I also know that with the next cast the
fly might come back with a sizable fish. I'm always hopeful. And I still don't know what I'm doing. |
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