I know that I like an art where disparate elements form an entity.
James Schuyler
Hope is such a bait, it covers any hook.
Oliver Goldsmith
There's no such thing as a sure thing.
There were no premonitions or nightmares, no clairvoyance or sudden attack of insight. I approached the coming day's fishing with my usual mindset, which now quietly included an ever growing level of confidence, the product of several discoveries made in the past few weeks regarding implementation of certain flies at strategic times as I moved through the day. All was, as far as I knew up to that point, quite well.
I'd gotten on the road an hour earlier than usual. I suppose there's nothing remarkable about that since the sun's up earlier too, and if I planned to successfully utilize my new articulated bunny leech, then I'd best be on the water for awhile before sunrise. A big-ass leech on the streak during full sun will entice only the really dumb fish (sometimes), but I'm not going to hang around all day waiting for the evening unless I plan on a hundred and fifty-mile drive home in the dark, which isn't so bad if I'm thirty years younger and haven't been up since two-thirty in the morning, although the thought has (and still does) run through my mind.
I have what is often perceptively referred to as a relatively clear schedule. As far as my eyes can see. The only mounds out ahead on the topography of my life are those I set aside for fishing. Just imagine your life as filtered by software you run in your head that deletes any and/or all activities/people you deem quite unnecessary but somehow continue to make time for. Or, since that particular technology isn't available yet (to most of us), try this.
Develop a passion for something! A real, honest-to-goodness passion! Or, more realistically, take what you think is the easy way out and continue to find excuses for living your life as you have always lived it (never knowing what it is I am referring to here).
[Tunnel vision is wonderful. I highly recommend it to everyone. Life is so much more simple/gratifying this way. And while I understand that next to no one who reads this will agree (which means next to nothing to me), I will continue to wave this banner, knowing full well that while I know what I state is a truth, for most everyone else this is veritably impossible, and therefore a ridiculous statement. Seriously, though, I know that most normal people have really full lives; really full, and it's just not possible to focus so sharply on any one facet of life because there're way too many so they just try to do the best with whatever time they have and end up for the most part just happy to be here, or there, or everywhere (if they can) for a little while but not for too long because oops they missed something along the way and which way is it back to sanity but they don't know because that sure seems like a long time ago or maybe it was never and where is it they're supposed to be next?]
Cold morning. I walk along the creek far up the frozen trail past my usual destination through frosted clumps of grasses, listening to the ravens' morning discussion which centers around who's going to sit with the kids for awhile. The decision goes against the grain for Mr. Raven as the Mrs. circles and offers a few pointers before she wheels and heads upstream ahead of me, leaving a grumbling dad to his babysitting chores. Here and there rings expand silently on the glassy surface. Several ducks sound the alarm as they noisily take flight while I make my way through the cattail reeds to the water's edge. Laying down my chironomid rod, being extra careful to place it way out of harm's way (because I stupidly stepped on and broke it right above the handle five weeks ago) I release the articulated bunny leech from the keeper and strip line off the reel. Sunrise is still a good forty-five minutes behind me as my leech plops into the water.
I let it settle for a few seconds. What a great drive out here this morning. Out the door before three-thirty. Zero traffic. I mean none. Not even the usual armada of semis. I passed a couple coming up the hill out of town and that was it. Just me, billions of stars, the road, the darkness, and Deep Purple. Ha. Priceless. It's the little things like that. Not worth mentioning to anyone else as in who's going to even care, but so precious to me. From seventy thousand feet up I'm an infinitesimal beam of light running from the sun searching its way across an anonymous landscape from one small constellation to an even smaller one and then finally into the oblivion more popularly known as Rocky Ford spring creek.
After the fourth cast, I began to sense a crease in the plan. Nothing alarming, it's just that by the fourth cast on the last several forays using the leech, I'd been connected to my second or third, or even fourth fish, and it had been lighter out than it was now. The fifth cast settled for awhile as I gave it all some thought and scraped some ice out of the guides. Cold enough today to do that, too. It was then that I realized what was happening.
Turnover. I looked more closely on the surface, and saw several small gobs of last year's bottom growth, dislodged from their anchors by this year's new crop, floating past me. Going immediately to my sets of recollections on this point, I remembered that the first few days of turnover (a religious holiday?) here are tough on the fish, and thus also on fishermen. The trout, for the most part, hunker down and become extremely selective, turning their noses up at what's been staple food, and therefore viable fly patterns for them all winter. Right in the middle of this small epiphany, as I began my retrieve, I get my first strike and it's a dandy. At least one of them is still looking for a big meal. Line screams off the reel as the fish streaks downstream for Moses Lake. I pat myself on the back, proud all over again of my new leech pattern, not knowing then that it's the only fish I will take on it this day.
It's time to think about a fly change and I finally, after working the leech rather unceremoniously through every inch of territory I can reach for the next half hour or so, pay attention to the voice in my head. It's been chiding me for awhile now. I'm taken back to a cartoon I liked as a kid, where Daffy Duck has an alter ego perched on each shoulder, one good, the other evil (don't know about everyone else that saw those, but I always rooted for the evil one, which won out most of the time anyway). In my case one is presently status quo, the other is change. Their roles may mutate dependent upon situations. They're with me every time I fish, perched there, filling my head with their diametric, sometimes perceptive, sometimes totally illogical opinions. Sometimes I listen to one, sometimes the other, or I just fish, listening carefully to all the arguments, and then make up my own mind, which, when I think about it, is a scary statement in and of itself, but also means I'm to blame for a bad fly choice really only about a third of the time.
So I snipped off the leech, dug out 'the box' to search through the scud section, then remembered I had two stuck in the foam pad on my vest. Perfect, because last week these two flies... well, I'll save the boasting for later. Sun's on the water, and The Logic (borne of recent experiences) makes this move a classic no-brainer. That's my first mistake, or second, really, because I shouldn't have fished the leech for so long. But, as I explained earlier, that wasn't my fault.
Two scuds, about eight inches apart. The top one is a number ten, or twelve, the bottom one a fourteen or sixteen. The shanks are wrapped with lead. I'd say lead 'substitute' here, but that sounds too horribly politically correct, which it isn't (I'd be lying. Lead is king). Often, if I'm unsure about the 'color of the day', I'll use two different colors, usually with the lighter-colored scud as the point fly, or not, of course, but recent successes have (sometimes) dictated dark on the top, lighter on the point. The idea is to cover as many bases as possible within the spectrum of the colors and sizes of the 'naturals' here. In a perfect world I'd fish one, and still sometimes do, but that's only when I'm stark raving dialed in sure of the color and size, and that only happens when the fish are wildly appreciative. Otherwise it's a numbers game. By that I mean if you show them two instead of one, they think it's a hatch and start feeding on them. That's what I like to think. I also fish my chironomids two at a time. I'd use three if could cast them without creating a complex macrame project for myself too often. I'm good enough at that with two and an indicator.
As far as I know, from what I've observed, anyway, there seems to be at least a couple of popular methods with which to fish scuds. A lot of fishermen prefer to fish them underneath an indicator. That challenges me. I know scuds can 'swim', which is really just a series of rather spasmodic movements designed to propel themselves only short distances. I have seen fish hooked using this method, but I have also, on occasion, noticed that the 'scud' being fished was decidedly orange in color. Now, I understand that a dying scud will have an orangish tinge, and the fish may very well be eating them for that reason, but, I've seen some pretty damned bright orange 'scuds' being fished, leading me to think that it's being mistaken for an egg. I don't fish egg patterns. I personally think that's way out of bounds. When I fish the scud, I prefer to use what I think is a more rational, common sensical approach, which is to let them settle for a bit and then very slowly, with a hand twist retrieve, drag them along the bottom, adding a bit of a twitch every now and then. This method works fishing blind, and is especially effective when I'm able to cast to fish I can see. It's exciting when the scud gets the fish's attention causing it to either move in slowly for a more thorough examination or, when the scud is moved, sometimes quite casually swimming over to eat it, although I've also had them suddenly dart toward and inhale the prey thinking it might escape. The number of fish I've hooked fishing scuds this way has convinced me that despite it being tedious and time consuming, it's a more 'natural' approach. Notice how I got around using the word patience.
But none of this happened. Not one fish was enticed to give any of my offerings any more than a passing glance. I switched colors, and sizes. I fished them blind. I spotted fish and cast to them. I suffered through refusals, shuns, and downright indifference, some fish even turning and swimming away as soon as they saw my scuds. I put it right in front of them. I dragged them across in front of likely candidates. I tried every possible previously successful approach, to no avail. I think it was at about this time that the light began to flicker on. I stopped for awhile, and studied a couple of big bruisers that were hunkered down a short distance below my position. Occasionally one or the other would move a little right or left, the mouth would open and close, and then it was back to their original position. I began to notice other fish swimming around in a leisurely fashion involved in similar activity. I could see that something was being consumed, but it seemed strange to me that none of them were rooting through, or even perusing the bottom for food. The light flickered, then suddenly shone...
SHORT DIGRESSION
I like to think that my years of fishing experiences have served to instruct me. I've finally grown comfortable with being fairly confident in my ability to identify and solve problems, proud of my drive to find solutions or alternatives. And yet, while feeling all of this, I stood there frustrating the hell out of myself, suddenly not sure of anything (again), and it took one of those little voices telling me to think about what I was seeing, or more to the point was not seeing that turned it all around.
What I wasn't seeing was the key, and I couldn't see it because I was blinded by past success. The routine had become pre-determined out of the satiating quench of earlier successes. I'd become the guy that 'knows it all'. Worse than that, I'd become the guy who thinks he knows it all. I'd become my own worst enemy. I'd forgotten the 'most important rule';
NEVER let success go to your head!
There is a balance point that needs to be found, and maintained. The sweet spot. That spot lies at the exact center of your compass between confidence and humility, success and failure. Right there. In the middle of that tiny red dot. Anywhere else is just a journey in the process. It doesn't guarantee success, but it sure as hell means you're heading in the right direction. Amazing what I can figure out when I go fishing...
Back to the action.
Lesson completed, the scuds removed, chironomids now in their assigned positions under an indicator. My first cast settled and traveled maybe ten feet before my indicator suddenly disappeared. I reacted slowly, the adrenalin pump lifted my rod with too much gusto, more than a bit taken aback at the immediate response, and another trout made off with some tiny shiny jewelry. Several minutes later, re-fitted with two more chironomids, I was able to react more adroitly to the next take, and the one after that. And so on it went until I looked at my watch and saw that it was time to hit the road for home.
After one more cast.
After all, success, no matter how fleeting, should always be thoroughly enjoyed.
Doing a thing well is often a waste of time.
Robert Byrne
I wonder how many hooks I will go through in my lifetime. I wonder how many I've used so far. I wonder how many flies I've lost; to fish, to trees, bushes, submerged structure, to disgust. I'm sure that I'd find the total quite sobering, although probably nowhere near exemplary.
On many levels, it can be said that tying flies is a waste of time. Why bother with such a seemingly futile endeavor. Surely it should have been spent more wisely. And to spend it constructing such fragile, disposable artifacts? And time is not the only consideration. There is also the sizable amount of money that will be invested in the ongoing procurement of the countless types of materials that one accumulates as the years fly by.
Why not just go buy them already tied and be done with it? There are billions of them out there sitting in boxes just waiting to be bought and disposed of much in the same fashion as those I spend so many dollars and hours to create. To give up so much precious time (and money, if such a thing as money can be called precious) in the creation of something that will eventually be destroyed or lost seems ludicrous, does it not?
There is another facet to this folly. It's the one that I find most interesting, too.
Ever since I've tied flies, even from the very beginning, it has been a labor of love, a never-ending infatuation. The ability to create and tie my own flies, flies that will catch fish has driven me from almost the very beginning right up to the point where I am today, and will always be the nexus of my fishing experience. I have, ever since I first sat back and perused my very first creation, gained an immeasurable amount of satisfaction from this activity. Each and every fly I finish is alone reason enough to sit back for a moment to simply enjoy the visual impact it has on me. That never gets old. I can fill my boxes with my flies, many of them totally unique creations of my own design, others more classically-oriented patterns I have come to trust, and know that whatever fishing situation I encounter there's probably an answer, or alternative in my box that will work. To me, for me, that is exactly what this fly fishing thing is all about. I'll go further. It wouldn't be nearly as enjoyable using flies that I didn't tie myself. I can say this with conviction, because I've been there.
That having been said, here's the interesting part.
There I am, stepping down through a run thigh deep in the Spokane River, swinging my favorite soft hackle pattern when I feel a sudden jolt and for a split second feel the weight of a desperate fish before my line goes slack. I quickly strip line, concerned, and see that whatever hit my fly is probably wearing it because my tippet is now empty. Not a time for sentimentality, or even a second thought as I reach into my vest pocket for the box and a duplicate. The next one is in the water and on it's way hopefully into a fish's mouth and a happier ending in seconds. After several more casts I realize that the very sharp tug I had a little later is why I haven't had a pull for awhile because I've been casting with no fly. Back into the box again. And so it goes.
There is the small cottonwood behind me that will, when I'm in a hurry, reach out and grab my fly. There are sharp-edged boulders here and there just beneath the surface that offer hidden danger. And there are the fish themselves, notorious for tearing up hundreds of those all of which once sat so proudly, so eloquently in my vise. So what do I do with those? Why, I donate them to the river. A gift, gladly given, from me to my river for providing me with the chance to come here and experience the thrill of luring fish with my flies again and again. And at the end of each day, as I make the short drive home, my thoughts revolve around flies and fish knowing that soon I can sit down again at the vise to create and enjoy.
The truth, as I sit here in the midst of yet another mid-March snowstorm that promises to further delay my eventual return to my river, is this. I without question owe more to the fishing with and tying of flies than anybody I know. I'm pretty sure that if it were not for these passions I have developed I would be either dead, or, at the very least, in a very bad way.
One word. Alcohol.
So I stand happily on the considerable time and money spent; the wisest investment I will ever make. An investment that will continue to pay countless, priceless dividends right up until the end, which I don't see happening any time soon in my immediate future, because tying and fishing with flies is also my fountain of youth.
I am so truly, so wonderfully blessed.
Man arrives as a novice at each age of his life.
Nicholas Chamfort
I begin with an idea and then it becomes something else.
Pablo Picasso
I finish the fly with a couple of half-hitches, dab some Griff's on the head and stand up (a little too fast), noting again the lag in my equilibrium's ability to keep pace. That's happens more often now as I get older, and get lost. Time just kind of goes away. It really does. Well spent, mind you, albeit not like all time passed, but one in the same it's gone forever.
I really do have to stretch. My lower back it doth protest and I can't feel my butt, now that I'm aware again. I start to think that 'when I was younger I could sit here all day...', but that's not really right because when I was younger I more or less tied as if I was being timed, and when ensconced behind the vise was without a doubt missing out on something or at the very least denying myself precious time to do something else. Back then it wasn't always all about fishing with flies, although I'm hard pressed to bring to mind a lot of what I did do. I have a hard time remembering what it was I did when I wasn't fishing. It must have all been pretty unremarkable, yet I to this day still have such vivid memories of my fishing from very early on. In the pot that sits simmering, all else has evaporated, leaving only that.
✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯
Rain incessantly plasters itself against the window, rain that falls as snow if you climb a few hundred feet in elevation. Our mountain snowpacks are more than adequate for this time of year, about 90% of normal; a good thing while being a bad thing. Mostly a good thing, but I'll reserve final judgement until the hopefully somewhat dry and early summer. I love a good snowpack as much as any foresighted, trout-conscious future-minded fisherman, but I also wish for a warm spring and relatively dry entry into the summer months so that my river will be in shape as soon as possible. I rarely get my way without there being caveats to that wish, as in scant winter snowpacks resulting in minimal run-off which, by August puts the whole system in jeopardy, or conversely, cold, wet springs which linger clear into midsummer. There have been years like those, which translate into either dangerously low flows, subsequently sparse hatches, and high water temperatures, or the opposite; big, off-color water that rages down through the system far into July. These events aren't a big deal if there is a desire for (and ability to get to) other water that has separated itself; that has become as important to others as this one is to me. I don't know a lot of guys who call this river 'home', and even fewer who would state that publicly. But the ones I have known that do? Well, they know exactly what it is that has tunneled our vision. I have, in the accumulated words of many previous posts, expounded on those virtues. But, beyond all the reasons I have for calling this river my home water, beyond all the literal glitter and shine I could possibly employ to polish any narrative of my fishing here, beyond all of that, there is a bit of (for want of a better term I will simply call it) pride involved. And I am fairly certain that this 'pride' has been the driving force behind my initiative to as thoroughly as possible understand this river and therefore fish it with as much confidence as it is possible to have when fishing a river of this nature. It's not like I haven't had numerous chances to explore other water. I have. And I've enjoyed being there, have not been immune to the feeling that yes, there are rivers out there I would love to fish a lot more often than I do. Yet, after saying this, why is it that when I am on other water does the sense of longing (and sometimes betrayal) for my home water never fail to wriggle its way into my consciousness?
I suppose there's more to it, more to my loyalty to the Spokane River than that which is most visible. It is true enough that early on my willingness to spend so much time plying its waters engendered a knowledge level wherein I began, over time, to enjoy consistent, even though marginal success, which in turn encouraged further forays. But what is not so visible are the days of utter frustration. There were (and still are) many of those. Frustrating or not, it was still a river with a decent population of trout that ran right through the town where I lived and it seemed, even back then when I thought about it, a terrible waste of a basically backyard resource constituting tremendous negligence on my part not to take some time to understand what I'd need to know to be successful here. Subsequently, the more I fished it, any thoughts about needing to be anywhere else quietly diminished, became little more than distant, passing fantasies.
Having basically taught myself most everything beyond the actual act of casting and rudimentary knot-tying (thanks again, dad), I grew into the boots of a fisherman with few, if any, preconceived notions other than understanding that there seemed to be no end to my need for knowledge, both on the water and off. I assumed nothing as far as my ability level was concerned, and so continued, at times painfully slowly, to improve.When I began to actually notice that, I was further encouraged.
Early on, as now, reality was (and remains) the best deflector as far as ego and it's overinflation was/is concerned. In fishing solo, I had no way to measure growth other than my own gauge, which was decipherable only to or by me. Fish counts were never an issue. I was thrilled with any success, understanding almost from the outset that I learned less from the days I landed many and so much more from those days where I brought few, if any, to hand.
✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯
One of the few positive aspects of aging is the clarity it can bring to some of the philosophies one develops or has bumped into along the way. Insight can often come in staccato rushes with blinding speed, leaving us more or less cognitively frozen in the headlights. More often, it sits quietly, biding its time unobtrusively perched on our shoulder waiting, winking knowingly when we finally take notice. There is a lot that is learned, or occurs 'by accident', or so it is said, a theory to which I once prescribed. I don't think that way now. Everything happens for a reason. That's a lot easier to understand upon the realization that knowledge comes when you can delineate that reason from all the peripherals and then transform that which you have defined into a viable method, or tool. Do that often enough and you begin to see that you have further developed probably your most important tool; that mindset which allows you to solve the mystery you once categorized as an 'accident'.
That's exactly how I came to fully enjoy the Spokane River, and the satisfaction derived from swinging flies. And when I was able to extrapolate the reasons, the insight perched on my shoulder finally winked, as if to say, Steve, your journey is really just beginning.
And so here I am. I have arrived. Not to a conclusion, or end of anything other than where I was. This points me again as I embark from yet another starting point.
Some years ago, maybe five, or six, it really doesn't matter, I went steelhead fishing for the first and only time (so far) in my life. It was just for a few hours after my boss at the fly shop and I had finished a four day stay in Wenatchee to make some money washing windows. We were getting pretty damned good at it, too. Had all the gear. On the way back, as promised, Bill turned the overloaded Ford pick-up off the highway and we headed up the Methow River valley to meet up with another gentleman who worked at Bill's Blue Dun Fly Shop in East Wenatchee. It was to be, for me, a rather momentous day. As 'luck' would have it, I hooked and landed a magnificent wild buck. Much to the chagrin of my mates, I was the only one to land a fish. My first, and only, so far, steelhead. The whole sequence is forever indelibly etched in my mind. And, to make it even sweeter, I was fishing a fly, a kind of spey/hybrid that I had conceptualized and then tied. To make it even sweeter, I was fishing that fly with a fourteen-foot one-inch seven-weight spey rod, probably these days closer to what people like to call a switch rod. Because of the extent of my roll-casting on the Spokane, I'd rather easily fallen into a modestly effective single spey delivery which worked well enough for me on this day as far as my knowledge of such things went at the time. I knew going in that I'd feel pretty self-conscious about my readily apparent lack of steelhead experience, so I took my place at the end of our threesome as we worked our way down through various runs, a good plan, because I kept one eye on my fishing but paid a lot of attention to what was going on in front of me. Both Bill and Jeremy were adept, and comfortable with their spey rods. I would stand there secretly in awe as they easily popped long casts using a variety of methods. Only when I was pretty sure they were busy would I make mine, suffering through many short, ill-spent drifts when my novice attempts would go awry.
But, unwittingly, I found that I'd made a good choice when I decided to be the caboose. The last run we fished through was the most promising looking water of the day. There was a fast-running trough across the river that tumbled into a deep, somewhat turbulent, slowly widening run, and it wasn't out of the question for me to be able to reach it. It looked so fishy that my hands started to shake! It was hard to understand how both Bill and Jeremy had fished down through it and come up empty! Now it was all mine!
Being the last in line, I could more slowly step my way through. I really had the sense of something good happening if I could just get a couple of good casts to the far side of that trough. The fly, carried downstream as it sunk, would begin swinging up and across out of the bottom of that trough as my line went taut right where the current slowed. I had to gauge where I spent time, though, as it was well past three in the afternoon and I knew that when Bill reached the narrow chute at the top of the bend below us, we'd be done. As I watched, he set up for a double spey. His line seemed to reach out forever, turning over perfectly to land the fly at full extension just feet from the opposite bank. That's another picture that's forever etched in my mind. I was truly inspired!
I was straggling a bit and knew it, but hadn't surrendered to the creeping feeling that I wasn't going to make something happen here. I put a nice cast into the air, and watched my pink and cerise fly land well across the trough. I threw a mend at it, and waited as it travelled. Jeremy was now a good two hundred yards downstream, and I remember him hollering up at me, "Waitin' on ya! You okay up there?"
I remember looking downstream and noticing how far down he really was as I readied a response. I never got a word out of my mouth, though, which didn't matter in the long run because at that instant all hell broke loose.
I remember the moment when I finally saw him. I remember how I trembled, the long list of things could possibly go wrong now drumming through my head. The take had been electrifyingly brutal. Four hundred and forty volts streaming in a nanosecond up my arms and into my brain. I'd never experienced anything like it. I remember feeling totally at the mercy of the energy let loose, seeing my line disappearing into the dark green of the pool downstream, curving, and at that very instant a sleek, bright fish careening spasmodically into the air nearly fifty feet upstream. It was my fish! How could he have gotten up there? And then, as if he'd had a sudden change of mind, turning and bolting downstream right past where I stood, my line now slapping against the guides and rod as he took it, desperately seeking freedom.
I remember seeing him finally swim abreast of where I now stood, some hundred and fifty yards downstream of that trough. He swam slowly upstream past me. I saw the fly embedded in the corner of his mouth. I remember turning him below me after he'd bolted again, trying one more time to escape. But his energy was gone, finally gone. I brought him to my feet and managed to tail him just as Jeremy reached me.
"I'll be damned", he said quietly, slapping me on the shoulder, "Jeezus, you caught yourself quite a fish."
I will always remember how it felt to be so blessed, to not only hook but to land such a beautiful fish. On my first outing. I remember how emotional I got, embarrassed, hiding it from my fishing mates, not wanting them to see the tears that welled in my eyes.
I remember turning the big buck up into the current and holding him there, feeling his strength slowly return. And as I released him, he hovered there for a bit, right in front of me, before sliding quickly back out into the deeper water. It was almost dark. Time to hit the road.
Looking back, I'd like to be able to say that I wasn't expecting to hook a fish the very first time out. I'd like to say that. But, in the back of my mind, I felt that I had every bit as good a chance as either of my fishing mates. I'd read the water correctly, I'd put the cast where I knew it would be most effective, and, by luck, I had the right colors. Turns out I was the only one of the three of us who put pink through that trough that day. I was also the only one to land his fish.
I have not fished for steelhead since that day. Not that I have not dreamed of doing so... But I know that now the days hold promise. I will again. That time is coming as sure as the sun will shine. There are things I first must do. I must prepare in every way I can. I must be ready. I will be ready. Ready to learn. To grow.
It's the logical next step; taking those lessons I have learned from fishing with flies into the next world will give me a good starting point. I will have a solid platform. Best of all? The best is yet to come.
I can't wait. I absolutely cannot wait!
Staring at the river I began to wonder what we are when we are alone.
Jim Harrison, The English Major
A man can be himself only so long as he is alone.
Robert Schopenauer
The memories of success are always in equal measures offset by the questions borne of unfinished business.
Steve Moss
They all start out the same way. Simply a hook in the vise. As I sit and stare at the hook, the bobbin slowly twisting on the few thread wraps that anchor it to that hook, countless combinations of fur, feathers, wire and synthetic materials align and then realign themselves in my head, overlaid on backgrounds of locations as various scenarios run like snippets of a feature length movie behind it all. Slowly, inevitably, a specific event, or incident, will begin to play itself over and over, and then, through the ever-changing amalgam of possibilities there emerges a distinct image. A fly. One that I might, given the ability to learn from the original scene, create and implement perfectly into that clip now playing over and over in my head. A tangible response to a still vivid memory. I seem, over the years, to have not only developed a rather extensive library of these events but also the knack for bringing them to life again and again in order that I may learn from them. But these sequences in and of themselves infer much more; in prescribing to this process, I offer to myself the chance to enjoy a small level of redemption.
But, even as the transformation from hook to fly takes place, my mind travels ahead. I am well aware of the caveats. There is always so much more to success than the simple task of concept and creation, although I do allow for a short period of appreciation upon perusal of the finished fly. In a perfect world, the completion of this stage alone would negate all of the peripherals I might encounter from this point onward, although even early on in my fishing life I found that to be far from true. I think back, now finding satisfaction in the fact that it didn't. If successes were always so easily come by, where is the necessity to learn and thus hopefully carry forward into subsequent experiences that which was learned?
A well crafted fly is a delight to behold. A showcase of artistic skill, knowledge and creativity. A confidence builder. Another chance. But not even the masterful level of skill and dexterity necessary to create such a work of beauty will necessarily translate into success on the water. Because after all is said and done, especially after a particularly frustrating series of casts culminating in that familiar feeling of abysmal failure, the reality of the rest of those peripherals involved takes center stage. Or they should, anyway, because, when I think back on so many of those incidents that left me goggle-eyed and talking to myself, more times than not it wasn't the fly that begged for change. It was my method of application.
Every now and then, usually immediately following a mild triumph, I am made aware of how much I tend to take for granted. The first being able to effectively discern in any given situation a simple descending order of a specific set of challenges and the second to skillfully implement the adjustments I have come to deem necessary. True, not all the fish in a given area are there for the same reason, and, more to the point, few of them are going to be turned on by the same stimulus unless there are circumstances that cause them to be. A hatch is the most prominent factor coming to mind. And that's going to show you either a lot of noses or whole heads and sometimes bodies dependent upon what stage of development the prey are in when they become food. Not that they haven't been food until now; I use the surface, or near-surface feeding as a point of reference to help illustrate a point or two. If they're eating nymphs it's pretty safe to say that most of the activity will be subsurface. I say most. There are, as always, exceptions to that rule.
I do not pretend to know what goes through the mind of a trout. As long as I have gone in search of them, and as much success as I have managed to enjoy over the time spent, I still can honestly say that all I do know is that they spend a lot of time either eating or in search of food. I know that for each food item, or stage of whatever it is they eat, there are ways to get flies that imitate what they are looking for in front of them. I also know that more often than not, in the final analysis, it will be something other than the fly that causes that trout to either rise and eat it or embarrass you. It won't matter how well tied it is, how far you cast, or how well placed that cast was. It'll be a combination of other things. And, I am relatively sure, that as it is with all animals, there are no two trout in any given area that are attracted by exactly the same thing. However, having said that, the ONE best way to increase the odds, the absolute BEST way to level the playing field is to have the tool box open and ready.
If I was to admit to you how many hours I've wasted putting the same dry fly on the water to drift magically through a minefield of rising fish without it being eaten, you'd be amazed. I know I am, because I suffered for the longest time from the "oh, he'll eat it next time for sure" syndrome. I got so submerged in my own pattern of attack that I couldn't understand that there may have been a solution other than to just stand there and continue to bomb away frantically. Yeah, they may have a brain one umpteenth the size of ours, but unless we actually use ours, well, as they say, size doesn't matter. Gradually, and in the company of a few well-spaced 'accidental' discoveries, I came to understand that there was more to it than what I'd liked to think. I came to realize that it would be beneficial to develop certain techniques that would (hopefully) increase my chances. I was all too ready for a huge pity party, thinking the hill too steep to climb, but since I already knew that I was in it for the long haul, it became easier to spend the time necessary to work to improve my skill level. I might add here that it's also always an added incentive when you see good things begin to happen as a result of the work you've done. It makes the decision to go fishing an easier and easier one to make, and starts a cycle. The more I go, the more I learn. The more I learn, the more I have to work on. The more I work on, the more I get adept with and comfortable using. The more I get adept with and comfortable using, the bigger my tool box gets. The more I dig through that toolbox, the more I use. The more diversified my toolbox gets, the better the odds. An amazing aspect to toolboxes; no matter how stuffed with all the tools you could ever hope to acquire (and then more), they're always easy to haul around. And something else; as my toolbox grows, I carry fewer and fewer flies, which means less time spent staring into space and scratching my head and more time wisely spent utilizing the tools I have honed.
It's amazing, this journey. I've learned so much, including the fact that I will never know enough. There will never come a time when I am satisfied with what I have come to understand. There will always be more to learn, situations to ponder, flies to conceive, skills to perfect, fish to catch. But, and most importantly, I've come to see that there will always be one more chance for a little redemption.
We dance round in a ring and suppose, but the secret sits in the middle and knows.
Robert Frost
You've got to be very careful if you don't know where you are going, because you might not get there.
Yogi Berra
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.
The Choke
(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.
