For an hour I’d been casting onto the creek, drifting flies over the places I thought trout would be. And nothing had happened.
Nothing good, anyway.
I’d already lost three flies in the brush hanging over a
particular hole, trying to drop one where I was sure a hungry fish was waiting. I had no proof, but I knew if I was a fish, that’s where I’d be. I pried a few
other holes and flats, too, with no return on my investment of time and tiny,
intricately-made little flies.
Maybe I’d lost my touch. It had been a while. Most years, I
would have fished many times before late May arrived. But this year, it just
hasn’t felt right. I’ve got too much to do and have accomplished too little to
reward myself with time on the river. But today, I decided it was needed.
I’ve been feeling a bit gummed up on the writing side of things, which is unfortunate because it's how I make my living, and also my only real hobby, other than
fly fishing. I’ve got press releases to write, and a book project I’m working
on, and the whole blog thing. And none
of it is flowing out of me these days. It feels like a chore.
I decided I should go talk to the fish about it, for a few brief
moments, anyway. If only the fish knew how much thought I’d put into my post-dinner
excursion to this river looking for a conversation, they’d surely be more
cooperative.
Fly fishing is a repetitive endeavor. You cast and cast and
cast, think a little, and then cast some more. There-in lies part of its beauty
and, also, its ability to bring on a trance-like, meditative state.
Cast, drift, retrieve. Cast, drift, retrieve. Cast, drift, retrieve.
Cast, drift, retrieve. Cast, drift, retrieve. Cast, drift, retrieve.
I’d been at it an hour this particular evening, a very short time considering
the many hours I was capable of standing and casting. Yet, I was running out of
daylight and, thus, out of time. Besides,
as W.C. Fields once advised, “If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.
Then quit. No use being a damn fool about it.”
It was decided, this damn fool was going home.
I turned and walked a few strides up the river, headed back to the car and back to my current struggles with writing and life, when my eyes
beheld something beautiful: a swarm of flies a few feet off the creek. It’s beautiful
in the eyes of a frustrated fly fisherman, to be sure. They were dancing and dropping
and rising again, in a mating ritual that happens on lucky spring nights. Lucky
for them, and for the fish, and for me.
I couldn’t get close enough to identify the flies, but I
knew the rough size and color. Likely a Hendrickson hatch. And if there were fish in this river, they
would be rising soon.
Maybe I had enough light for a few more casts, I convinced
myself.
 |
| Nice talking to ya. |
Others have written and I’ve often thought about how fly
fishing is like life. It always seems that just when you’re about to give up, or when resolved you've made your last cast, a
little luck comes your way. Now, I am not a total
fool, and I know there are many times when that luck never appears. There’s a
fine line between persistence and foolishness. Hope can be the enemy of acceptance.
But I also know when the luck does arrive, or karma, or grace if you’re a religious person, it often makes a dramatic entrance. Like a swarm of flies dancing over a river.
But I also know when the luck does arrive, or karma, or grace if you’re a religious person, it often makes a dramatic entrance. Like a swarm of flies dancing over a river.
Within minutes I’d hooked up with four hungry trout,
including one in that hole, who I knew was there all along. We had our conversations, and I put them
back. All was right with the world, and I could go home.
And it’s a good thing, because I had a lot of writing to
do.
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