I’m eager to be in the mountains this morning, wading the chilly river in search of rising browns and cutthroats. The cool, moist autumn air hanging over the river lifts my soul and stimulates my mind as nothing else can. Being outdoors invigorates me, but fly fishing itself is exhilarating. I guess it satisfies a need I have to compete and overcome, although I don’t really think of myself as all that competitive (except maybe at Scrabble). I’m not competitive with other people when fishing, just with myself and the fish.
Fly fishing is not a battle to death, but to victory—a fish eluding my fly or shaking himself loose if caught. Me reeling a fish in then releasing it. One is conquered, one is conqueror. Both compete again.
Fly fishing does something to me that bait or lure fishing does not. With these other methods of fishing it’s not as important to discern the appropriate bait or time of day, just skewer a wriggling worm with a number ten hook and chuck it in the river—any time, any place. As a fly fisherman I must delicately balance the variables of the proper stage of the insect’s life, and the proper type and size of insect I am trying to imitate for the time of year, time of day, and specific body of water I am fishing in.
The best time to dry fly often fish coincides with the best times to be in the mountains—when shadows are long and the air is cool. Late afternoons and evenings I can often find fish rising for flying insects. Those are the times when dry flies work their magic on the river. And the river casts a spell on me.
The Logan River can have finicky fish as it is, and with no hatch on yet this morning, these are two reasons why dry flies are an unlikely choice. At such a time a more likely choice would be a nymph, a fly that imitates a water-born insect in its larval stage.
Being a hard core dry fly fisherman I give no thought to the more practical nymph. The only two things I need to decide this morning is fly size and kind. I have several dry flies in my box (Royal Wulff, Blue Wing Olive, Yellow Humpy and Adams). Most of them are in the relatively small sizes of 16 and 18. I’ve learned that on this river, the smaller the fly, the better my chances of success.
What is success to the fly fisherman? I don’t bring fish home, so my father-in-law often thinks I’m a failure because he never sees the fish—the fish stories are just that to him, stories. I use a barbless hook (the choice for many fly fishermen) and release all fish who manage not to release themselves. Part of my success is the manner in which the fish is caught. It’s a battle of wits and deception-can I cast an imitation fly which I have tied, in such a manner that it really imitates the insect? And will the fish be fooled into thinking that a hook entwined with thread and feathers is an insect? If I can, and it does, I’ve been successful in part.
Reaching the shores of the river I make my first cast as the first faint rays of yellow dapple the sky. The Royal Wulff ripples the water only slightly as it lands just upstream of a rising trout. Such a fly is almost an anachronism today, but I learned to fish using the flies out of an old tin fly box my father had kicking around for 30 years. My first fish were caught on a gaudy pattern much like the Royal Wulff, so I started learning to tie flies by tying the Royal Wulff.
Skill is a necessary requirement for the fly fisherman as well as deceit. The imitation fly weighs little more than an actual insect and is of insufficient weight to be cast in the same manner as bait or lure fishing. What propels the fly is the weight of the line (which isn’t much) and the skill of the fly fisherman “shooting” that line off the end of the rod. This action is learned over many hours of practice, tangled line and hooked vegetation. To watch a skilled fly fisherman in the act of casting is to see a delicately precise artistic form-a fluidity of movement is seen as angler, rod, line and fly flow like the river.
The physical activity of casting is rewarded by placing the fly in the desired location, which my first cast does this morning. It’s not enough to just get the fly on the water, it must be placed in front of a fish-not a school of fish, but a single fish. One-on-one.
I cast many times—some good, others not. I use six different dry flies, nothing else. Not a bite.
Conquered?
It takes me 15 minutes to clamber up the “shortcut” of shifting rocks. Brushing the mud and dirt from my waders I look over the side one last time. The fish remain in the river for next time. Maybe then I won’t climb the loose rocks again. Next time.
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