Chasing October Bows
"There is a fine line between fishing and standing on the shore like an idiot." Steven Wright
I was well into my second hour of fishing. I had successfully managed to free myself from several nasty entanglements involving intricately wrapped fly-line, hook, and weight. I was feeling like Steven Wright’s idiot but I was kinda proud of myself. I recognized that there was a time in my life when I would have cut the line and retreated to the bank. I might have even snapped the damn rod over my knee and threw it into the bushes in a fit of frustration. "Fly fishing's dumb." I would have said.
On this day though I was able to patiently unwrap the mess time and time again. Maybe it was no mistake that I haven’t taken-up fly fishing until now. I must be gaining patience. I must be a big boy now.
The plan for the day was simple: hike, fish, raft.
Tom was upstream and had a couple of brief hook-ups that ended quickly. “My goal for the day is to catch one fish.” Tom’s humble quest was declared early-on and it was looking like it was going to happen for him.
I was taking my instruction from Tom today and rightfully so. Although he used to be a self-admitted fly-fishing snob, he has expanded his repertoire to include everything under the sun. He has even joined me on the mudflats to wrangle salmon from our set nets, a far-cry from the purist ideals of the fly fisherman. He has a self-proclaimed Northern Pike-obsession too and is never too far away from his tattered floating mouse lure. He is quick to point out of all of the Pike tooth cuts along in its side.
Today he was getting back to his roots. There is no doubt that he knows his stuff and I consider myself lucky that he is happy to share his expertise with me.
The early afternoon sun made quick work of the last of the clouds bathing us in its glorious warmth. Katie was taking advantage of it enjoying herself on the bank, taking photos and relaxing. I was working on my ninth fly line tangle-mess but the sun felt good and I was managing to enjoy myself too.
I got the line under control and began casting again. My casting, a far cry from the romantic ones depicted in “A River Run’s Through it” was perfunctory at best but I knew that would change. I knew that if I got one strike, one bump, one hook-up then I could be bothered to cast with more feeling, more patience. Only then could I begin to become more of the process and start to pay attention. Only then could I begin to fish. I had to know that my technique, my presentation was even within the ballpark. “There’s one.”
I was retrieving the fly when he took it. I had a good two meters of line stripped, floating in front of me. I tensioned the line with my fingers as he bolted but the pull was too strong and somehow the line on the reel back spooled, came off and sprung like a slinky right out of the box. Shit.
I was able to hold the line with my hand and provide at-least some of the give-and-take required in the delicate battle of the trout. Luckily he was hooked well and with my fly-fishing mentor by my side helping to manage the rat nest of line and with Katie on-the-spot with the camera I managed to land him. |
| Thanks for the great photography Katie! |
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| The real story thanks to Tom's Photo bomb |
