January 10, 2012
(on) What I know
We dance round in a ring and suppose, but the secret sits in the middle and knows.
The problem was with where the rings were regularly, maddeningly originating. Lying on the far side and just downstream of the leading edge of the rounded granite slab that provided a food-funneling current break. It was not hard to suppose there was a bit of impudence in this trout's casual foraging. I wondered...
I stood there a good ten minutes, waiting for the nose not to appear again so that I might continue my trek upstream. There was no one around to witness either my prolonged observation or the feeding trout, therefore nobody to shake their head in disappointment should I shy away from this challenge, so moving on would've been that much easier if only that damned nose wouldn't keep popping up in exactly the same spot. So I stood there, and then I stood there a little longer, hypnotized, letting the rhythm of that feeding trout punch bigger and bigger holes in my argument for continuing my walk. But, the longer I stood there, a plan by which I might, with a little skill and of course some dumb luck, place my #18 parachute 'hybrid' in a tenable position began to formulate itself.
Having two rods available is advantageous when one of them happens to be rigged for this very occasion, which served to finally tip the scales in favor of the decision to give it a try. It would've been a lot easier to rationalize moving on if some lengthy preparation, considering the fact that it was a very cold day, was necessary. Somewhere in this chain of thinking I'd already realized that moving on despite having a rod ready would've added a weighty 'what if' to the rest of this day. Better to address the situation and be done with it. Give it my best shot and then move on.
Fishing with dries during the winter months here can range anywhere from pretty frustrating to downright silly. Only occasionally will even a perfect imitation that is deftly managed draw more than passing interest, and if it does, there is the distinct possibility of your fly becoming some obscenely large trout's temporary nose ring. You never know, unless it's visible, what's causing the disturbance that drew you into thinking dry, but the odds are better than even that it's big enough to infuse a tippet-snapping dose of adrenalin into your reaction the instant you see the take. I speak from experience.
As my tying craft progressed, I came to appreciate being able to sit back and enjoy the fact that there, sitting in my vise was a pretty damned good-looking classic dry fly, tied with the materials of the original recipe. But then, being a Gemini meant that I also got a kick out of innovating, creating something brand new (for me). I am a stickler for certain things no matter what I tie; less thread is better, proportion is paramount, and detail is relative, meaning that depending on the pattern I will employ only that which I am relatively sure are triggers, and the fewer the better. I am reminded of a shiny yellow '66 Chevelle I saw several years ago one night at a stop light. The light turned green and as the Chevelle began to move a synchronised bank of hideously blue lights illuminated the underside of the car as first the front, then the rear began rising a good three feet above the tires, which by the way had red lights in the gaudily chromed wheels. And while possibly in this case there is no such thing as too many triggers (attractors?), my experiences with overloaded flies have taught me well. I've said it before and it bears repeating; there is no substitute for a well-managed presentation. Especially in the winter, especially when there exists the possibility of hooking a trophy, if only momentarily.
hybrid - a thing made by combining two different elements; a mixture
It was for the specific reason of devising a small dry fly with this situation in mind that drew me to the vise one afternoon several weeks ago. I'd been visualizing a combination of two different flies, both of them classics, and there, in the vise, when the feathers settled and the head cement dried perched my concept. A little bit Adams, and a little bit baetis. And a parachute to boot. Its appearance satisfied me, so I tied a couple more, dosed them all with Watershed, and put them aside. No use getting too carried away yet, at least not until I had a chance to employ them.
I had to laugh out loud. What a way to try out my latest innovation. The scenario in my head did not look like this. I was supposed to be delicately placing the fly just upstream of a large, regularly appearing nose not more than twenty feet downstream. Instead, as I ripped more and more line off of the reel, I'd be casting on a diagonal a good sixty feet upstream right out into the middle of the creek. And then, if I put it where I wanted to, I had maybe a couple of seconds of drag-free time. The last thing I wanted to see was a wake, either from my fly dragging at the wrong time or the larger one created by a rapidly exiting fish. I decided that the fact that there really were no spectators was actually a good thing. As my son likes to say, Nobody will observe.
As I lengthened my false casts, I thanked the gods for backcast room and the lack of any noticeable breeze. A tiny dry fly at the end of a twelve-foot leader in a long cast is no match for even the slightest breeze. Only a wizard would be able to compute and allow for even the lightest air movement at this distance. There's always luck, but that's the reason I don't gamble anymore. The rod felt good in my hands, and my comfort level transmitted itself into tight loops and arrow-like direction. I was aiming a bit downstream as I fed line into my casts, sizing up the distance.
Every single one of us who has ever been in a similar casting situation has been faced with what I call the Inevitable Release. Delivery time. Sure, your false casts have been perfect. Every one. So perfect, in fact, that you hold on, making one or two more just because it feels so good. But that's not why you're here. Now it's time to get the fly on it's way. Everything else is just preparation, and even though it all went well you're still not there yet. You visualize that tightest loop extending out and across the distance, your leader inches above the fly line as the fly, carried by the remaining, ever dissipating energy turns over at full extension of your line and settles perfectly. A sound visual process also helps calm the nerves, at least up until the IR (inevitable release), but here's where a successful delivery separates the wheat from the chaff, so to speak.
We've all done it. We've all fallen prey to the anticipation, let our impatience shine through at precisely the wrong time. It doesn't matter how technically sound all those false casts were if it falls apart at Delivery Time. It doesn't matter how many times we've told ourselves to stay the course, don't get in a hurry, don't change what got you this far. But all too often, something somewhere at the end of the prepping process goes haywire and what got us so close to finally realizing success goes flying out the window because of a systemic failure. This failure, as I relate it to myself, lies not in our process, but in our heads. And, for me, the failure lay in my overall lack of confidence in my system. Not that my system was lacking anything, or was it? I came, over time, to realize that indeed it was. It was without a key component; my belief in myself.
(state of mind)
Seems intrinsic, almost an intangible, and maybe it is. But then again maybe it's bigger than that. Maybe it's a bit of a window, allowing us to see more about our lives and our infirmities than we'd probably care to admit. A certain hiccup that we have unconsciously cultivated for many years suddenly taking shape again and again. But there is always another chance to learn to deliver when the time comes, when the time is right. The chance to begin to dismantle, to bury The Choke. You're standing there facing up to a challenge that only you decided to take on, and it's probably not the first time. You stand there taking it on again because way down deep there's this voice asking for one more shot, for another chance. Sure, a lot could go wrong, and that's part of the reason for all those failures in the past, but, as difficult as it is, that shouldn't be your mindset no matter how many of those you've endured. You're still there, hatching a plan, willing to give it a shot again. Each new opportunity provides another chance to begin the task of re-programming yourself. Maybe the fish will eat my fly, maybe he won't, but I will do everything I can to make sure that my fly is right where it needs to be doing what it should do. Then and only then is it out of my hands. I will have accomplished that which I set out to do. And that will feel very satisfying, although, after saying all of that, I'd really much rather he'd eat it.
The current seemed to me to be compelled toward my side beginning about eight feet upstream of the rock. I found that to be to my advantage because I doubted I'd have much slack in my leader to play with once the fly had settled, and it had to be just that as it moved into the trout's window. Anything landing above and to the far side of the rock would be siphoned back over the trout's lie and basically be coming right back at me, which was of some worth. I guessed that I'd also have to successfully gauge just enough distance above the rock to allow for as much drag-free time as possible without destroying the drift before it arrived. In this regard, I felt fortunate that the flow above the rock was very consistent. No threads of faster or slower water as far as I could discern. All of these peripherals paraded round and round through my head. And then I stopped thinking. Enough input. Deliver it... NOW.
I've always been enchanted by the cast, so practice, for me at least, was never time misspent. Quite the contrary, it was time out of time; the feel of the rod in my hands, the sensation of the pull of the line on that rod, everything concerning the perfection of every nuance influencing my cast. And, as far back as I can remember in my fly casting life, the cast defining the tightest loop was always the pinnacle of sheer beauty. Early on I was captured by its elegance and thusly spent years in search of the techniques by which I might acquire the ability to reproduce it time after time. The quest for mastery taught me much about all of the peripherals involved; the rod, the line, the method, and most of all, the mindset.
And it was with this mindset that I delivered my fly, dropping my rod as I watched the tight, arrow-like loop reaching out across the creek's even flows to turn over and land my fly almost exactly where I'd hoped. True to form it immediately began its drift downstream toward me, and then it was in the trout's window, in his line of sight. And then it was drifting past, spilling into the riffle that ran along the rock's leading edge.
I stood, rod low, slowly retrieving line, running the sequence through my head. I wondered if I'd spooked him, or if the fly I'd conceived, tied, then placed so adeptly was not to his liking. I wondered if I'd miscalculated his lie. But I didn't hesitate to pick up and start the whole process again. Another opportunity awaited.
Again I measured my distance, aiming for the same landing zone, noting with satisfaction as the fly settled that I was in close proximity to the first cast. That was about as far as my thought process got, because by then the fly was in the window and then I saw the nose emerge to intersect it and now the fly was in the trout's mouth. I lifted the rod and felt the weight a split second before he broke clean of the surface into the cool morning sunlight and tumbled, body contorting this way and that, with a splash back into the water.
Nobody, nobody but me, observed. But I smiled the smile of success. Until the next time.