The good Lord granted us another
great day. The morning was crisp and
cool, the river was running clear, and the weatherman’s forecast was all sunny
and warm. Most importantly, I was going
to fish the Eno River with my good friend Terry Hackett and we had the whole
section all to ourselves.
We began our day wading side by
side into a section well known by both of us to hold big largemouth bass. I was casting at the banks on the left side
and Terry on the right. My deer hair
popper landed softly next to a log on the bank and was immediately pounced on
by a nice sunfish. We continued
upstream. Another splash on the left
side proved to be another sunfish on the end of my line. We continued upstream. Another splash…again on the left side.
We had reached the
best part of this hole and both of us knew it.
I watched as Terry made a perfect cast into the crease of two logs lying
in the water. I watched as he unveiled his
presentation with full anticipation of a large fish taking the fly….but
nothing. A few more twitches proved
unsuccessful as the fly floated unharmed out of the cover. Terry looked at me clearly frustrated and
began to speak—just as his fly disappeared into a swirl of water. The fish was hooked.
I knew it was a big fish because
I saw the take. I also could judge the
size of the fish by the whooping and hollering coming from the right side of
the river. Immediately I began digging
for my camera in anticipation of the photo opportunity to come.
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When I downloaded the photo that
evening I was surprised to see it did not show the middle aged man I was
fishing with, but more of a memory of him in his adolescence. The joy and surprise in his face revealed the
hidden child still left deep in his soul. (see photo left)
Is this why we fish? Is this why we return time after time to
familiar places in a quest to repeat a treasured memory? Is our passion for fly fishing really our
inner child fighting to keep us young? I
certainly hope so. I pray I never lose
that exhilaration and pure joy when I hook another prized memory. Somehow, I do think fly fishing helps me to
cope with my inevitable mortality.
As I ponder this question and thinking
of my own adolescence, I’m reminded of the moment I became a fly fisherman. At a young age on a family camping trip near
St Elmo, Colorado, I headed off on my own to a small creek next to camp. Armed for battle with only a Zebco rod and
reel, a tiny black dry fly, and of course the full intentions of catching a
trout, I sat on a fallen tree that spanned the small creek with my feet
dangling in the water. Slowly letting
the line out by hand, the current pulled the fish temptation downstream. The
fly continued its journey into a riffle and began bouncing up and down. While watching the fly intently as it danced
on the water, I was mesmerized by how well the tiny black fly imitated a real
one.
Several minutes went by when my
mind wandered to thoughts about the days my Grandpa Cope taught me how to fish. Sometimes we would go to the reservoir and
fish with a bobber, but sometimes we would cut a limb from a special tree, tie
a short piece of a line on the end, attach a hook, and then head off together to
a small stream near his house.
Generally, the end of the line would have a grasshopper or worm attached
and I would drift the offering along the undercut backs of the river. Many trout were caught using this technique
and it was by far my favorite way to fish.
Grandpa had recently passed away
and I inherited the tackle box this magic fly came from. As I was imagining all the mighty fish my
Grandpa must have caught with this magic dancing fly, a nice rainbow trout leap
completely out of the river and swallow it—the fish was hooked! From that moment on I was a fly fisherman and
it would forever consume my thoughts and deplete my wallet. I wonder if Grandpa was sitting on the log
next me when I caught that trout. I bet
he was.
Although this memory is clearly
precious, I do not long to repeat it. I
have absolutely no intension of fishing that creek again. I much prefer chasing bigger fish in bigger
rivers or seeking the rejuvenating solitude of a backcountry wild trout stream. So the question remains, why do I love fly
fishing so much?
Sitting around campfires with fishing
buddies drinking bourbon and smoking cigars, the conversation has often gone to
the deep meaning of fly fishing. It
seems many blogs and articles also try to answer this intangible question. However, Terry cringes at the thought of
discussions about the philosophical meaning of fly fishing. He typically replies with a comment consisting
of, “I just like to catch fish” and then tries to guide the conversation to
more interesting topics.
So as I sit here trying to
decipher my own thoughts, I conclude that Terry is right (I may never live that
one down). My need to find a
philosophical or deep meaning for fly fishing simply comes down to justifying to myself, and of course to my Wife, the new
fly rod I want to buy or the next guided float trip I’m dreaming of. Fly fishing is camaraderie with friends, the
relief from daily stress, and the great naps taken under a tree next to a quiet
stream. I believe fly fishing is simple,
exhilarating, relaxing, and most of all fun—it’s just plain fun—and that’s good
enough for me.
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