On Fly Fishing

Growing up in Western Kansas, virtually every family vacation was to the Rocky Mountains, especially Colorado. Shortly after returning from WW-II, my father discovered a remote little valley in the mountains near Gunnison. Through this valley ran a crystal-clear creek loaded with rainbow, brown and the occasional brook trout. It would be a toss-up as to who was more hooked, my father or the fish.

In subsequent years, my father would return again and again to the peaceful little valley and the beautiful creek with an ever-expanding family in tow, just as I have with mine and my sisters and brothers have with theirs. I know the compulsion a salmon feels to return to the waters of its origin. I feel it each time I turn off the main road to follow the meandering little creek up the valley to my home whose sweeping back deck is literally a fly cast from its waters.   

The enthusiasm my father had for fishing was infectious, and his 3 sons eventually came to share his addiction. I must note here that I continue to feel guilty about my mother and 4 sisters who were lured there each year with promises of family adventure, only to be abandoned almost every day as the four of us explored the creeks, streams and rivers of the area.

Although we fished with fly rods and tackle, we primarily used live bait; what my father euphemistically referred to as “garden hackle.” And while worms may not be the most elegant or sophisticated way to fish for trout, for those who are skilled in the art – and we were – it is devastatingly effective. The four of us could virtually sterilize a mile of productive creek in a single day. Behind our scorched creek approach we would leave a swath of devastation that put Sherman’s march to shame.

Why did we kill with such zeal? Good question. I suppose I could say that we had a family of 9 to feed and the only way to stay on vacation for 2 weeks on our modest means was to minimize expenses. Indeed, there is truth in that as I recall eating trout at least every other evening and sometimes for breakfast the following morning.

But if I’m being honest, necessity does not explain the piscatorial carnage we wrought. Early on, my father had established a ritual: Upon returning from a day on the water, each angler would ceremoniously approach the kitchen sink and, with great flourish, proceed to deposit therein the evidence of his angling prowess and, therefore, his masculinity. Not unlike the Vietnam War which was ongoing at the time, it was all about daily body count.

But even if we had wanted to practice catch-and-release, it is virtually impossible to do so when using bait. Trout typically swallow a baited hook so deeply that extraction is impossible without injuring or killing them. It was my belated recognition of this reality, combined with the realization that I don’t really like the taste of trout, that eventually led me to abandon bait entirely.

Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against bait anglers. Some of my best friends are bait fishermen. But would I want either of my daughters to marry one? Hmm . . . I would have to think about that.

Today, I am exclusively a dry fly angler unless I am on a tail water fishery (i.e., below a dam) which usually calls for using subsurface “wet” flies that imitate insects emerging from the bottom of the river. And while I will infrequently keep a couple small brookies to pan fry in bacon grease for old times’ sake, I am otherwise strictly catch-and-release now.

So, what’s the attraction of fly fishing? I’m not sure I can explain it to someone who does not feel it, but I’ll try. In part, when I’m walking a creek or stream I am reliving the happiest moments of my childhood. My father hated Western Kansas. The only time I can remember him being really happy and relaxed was on vacation in the mountains, and especially when he was knee deep in a stream with a fly rod in his hand and a cold beer (two, actually) in his creel.

I think my older brother and sisters got the best of Dad, as they tend to do with everything in a large family, something they see as their birthright. It occurs to me that eldest children are like America itself, in that they are exceptional only in the degree to which they consider themselves to be exceptional.

At any rate, by the time my younger siblings and I came along, the responsibility of a too large family with too little means weighed heavily on my father. Being the middle child of 7, I was literally lost in the crowd . . . except when we were on the creek. It was there, and only there, that I recall a patient, attentive father who was focused on me and excited to share his passion and his knowledge.

But while I’m sure that reliving golden moments of my childhood is part of it, my love of fly fishing goes beyond reminiscing. For me, there is something spiritually fulfilling about spending a day casting flies to wild trout on a secluded stretch of gin-clear creek in a beautiful mountain meadow under a brilliant blue sky. Sometimes it seems that my fly rod is an erratic metronome (yes, I know that’s an oxymoron – sue me) that has somehow synchronized with the rhythm of the natural world around me and put me into perfect harmony with it.  

I think that’s why I typically prefer to fish alone. It is rare for me to see another angler on the creeks and streams I routinely fish, and I will gladly give up size and quantity of fish for the quality of the experience. I’m not there to talk. I’m also not there to catch fish, per se. I’m there to plug into nature and myself.

I have had very satisfying days on the creek when I caught only a few fish or sometimes none at all. Anglers who don’t understand or appreciate the distinction between fishing and catching annoy me, and I don’t enjoy fishing with them. They tend to be the same people who know the price of everything and the value of nothing. They miss the whole point.

That said, there is something very satisfying about fooling a fish into taking an artificial fly. For me, it’s all about the strike, which is why I particularly like fishing on top because you can see and hear it. If a fish strikes my fly then I feel I have won the battle of wits . . . and yes, I know that sounds pretty lame (“Hey look, I outsmarted a fish!”), but there it is.

If I am able to also play, land, and safely release the fish, then that’s just icing on top. Ideally, the fish will spit the hook just before it is landed, thereby eliminating the need for me to handle it at all. I call that “the perfect release.”

If I could choose the circumstances of my death, I think it would be to drift off peacefully and painlessly while sitting on the bank of a secluded creek on a bright summer day drinking a cold beer after having just released a nice fish. I think that would be my perfect release.

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