Frenzy Holiday Giveaway
December 19, 2011
Frenzy Giveaways
scott fly rod fly fishing frenzy giveaway
The Fly Fishing Frenzy has an awesome giveaway for you!! We wanted to show our appreciation to all for following our Fly Fishing Blog and by doing so we are going to give away a few things:
1. Scott fly rod
2. Montana Fly Company fly reel w/backing and new fly line.
3. Montana Fly Company fly box
4. Additional fly box (cf style)
5. Fish Gear Fly Fishing Shirt
6. Fly Fishing Frenzy Decal
This stuff is awesome, especially the Scott Fly Rod. Our Christmas gift to you, on Christmas day morning we will be picking the winner. This giveaway will be running all week.
Here is how to throw your name in the hat. We wanted to make it easy but at the same time have some fun with it so we came up with a point system. The more points you have the more tickets you have and better chance you have to win.
There are three things you can do to get a chance to win, the first one is required.
* First, it is required to subscribe to our blog either by email or RSS and post this link of this blog post on your Facebook page for 1 point. (for those that already subscribe all you need to do is post this to Facebook.)
* Second, you can comment on the post for an extra point.
* Third, you can get 5 extra points by reposting this blog post in its entirety to your blog or website.
With over $400 worth of stuff make sure if you do repost this to your blog or site please email us at info@flyfishingfrenzy.com so we can make sure you get the extra points.
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3. or repost this blog post on your blog or site its entirety. Just highlight, copy and paste.
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CF Style Fly Box
Fish Gear Shirt
fly fishing frenzy decal
Monday, December 19, 2011
Friday, September 30, 2011
Tooth Missile
Way up in the north woods of Wisconsin there lurk monsters. Some of the biggest, meanest freshwater predators in North America prowl murky tannin-stained water with one thing on their mind: destroying the egos of fisherman. Walk into any bar in the north woods and you'll see one on the wall. Chances are you'll hear the story of how it was caught and by who and what kind of epic battle ensued. You'll also probably hear about how long the guy fished for it before catching it. It's not uncommon to hear stories of people fishing for years just to get a shot at one. So when the chance arose to go throw flies at the mighty musky, there was only one thing to do.
Down the road we went, Andrew D. and I, and 30 hours and 2000ish miles later we arrived in the muskie capitol of the world. Of course there were the usual delays with gear, middle of the night truck repairs, and having only a vague idea where we were going. But there we were, staring bleary eyed into steaming cups of coffee as our buddy Tim Fisher pulled out his camera. "This was yesterday," he said, as he flipped through picture after picture of giant fish. "You boys ready for this?" Tim is one of the guides at Musky Country Outfitters (www.muskycountryoutfitters.com) and was pumped that we finally got to come up to his neck of the woods when he had a couple of days off. Some of you may remember Tim from the last Wisconsin epic. Off to the river we went, dropping the boat in at a beautifully manicured launch site that I'm pretty sure Andew was not a big fan of, it being his truck and boat. Hey, what harm have concrete and rocks ever done?
We quickly learned that musky fishing is just like throwing streamers for trout. That is, if for trout you were throwing a 10wt. rod, sinking line, and a small dog as your fly. It's a good thing we had the helmet. The first fish that came in got us going. A few hours into the float we saw a tail break the surface just a little way downstream and Andrew's fly got smashed a minute later. It was on, it was hot, and it was pissed.
With the skunk out of the boat, we pressed on, smacking our huge flies into every seam, pocket, and riffle that looked fishy with nothing to show for it. Then, in the fading daylight, as our hope of another fish was fading, my line came tight. With a vicious strip set I drove the hook home and the next thing I knew the water exploded. A missle streaked across the river and erupted from the surface. The fish tried to jump several times, with violent gill plate rattling head shakes that I just knew were going to throw the hook. Putting my ten weight to the test, the fish ripped back and forth across the river. I didn't give him an inch, hoping that the 60lb. leader and 80lb. tippet would hold, and it did. With victory in sight, Tim slammed down the anchor, grabbed the net, and guided the beast in. It turned out to be the biggest fish of the trip, estimated at around 44", and my personal best for any fish on a fly.
Over the next three days we pounded water in several different locations and were able to land two smaller musky as well as a few smaller northern pike, but nothing quite like that first day. We saw plenty of other fish, even having a few supermonsters follow flies right up to the boat, only to turn away. That was just fine, that's Musky fishing for ya. Four days, four musky, no complaints here. A big thanks to Tim Tim and Willan the flymaster at the musky shack, I'm looking forward to partying down with you guys next year.
Down the road we went, Andrew D. and I, and 30 hours and 2000ish miles later we arrived in the muskie capitol of the world. Of course there were the usual delays with gear, middle of the night truck repairs, and having only a vague idea where we were going. But there we were, staring bleary eyed into steaming cups of coffee as our buddy Tim Fisher pulled out his camera. "This was yesterday," he said, as he flipped through picture after picture of giant fish. "You boys ready for this?" Tim is one of the guides at Musky Country Outfitters (www.muskycountryoutfitters.com) and was pumped that we finally got to come up to his neck of the woods when he had a couple of days off. Some of you may remember Tim from the last Wisconsin epic. Off to the river we went, dropping the boat in at a beautifully manicured launch site that I'm pretty sure Andew was not a big fan of, it being his truck and boat. Hey, what harm have concrete and rocks ever done?
We quickly learned that musky fishing is just like throwing streamers for trout. That is, if for trout you were throwing a 10wt. rod, sinking line, and a small dog as your fly. It's a good thing we had the helmet. The first fish that came in got us going. A few hours into the float we saw a tail break the surface just a little way downstream and Andrew's fly got smashed a minute later. It was on, it was hot, and it was pissed.
With the skunk out of the boat, we pressed on, smacking our huge flies into every seam, pocket, and riffle that looked fishy with nothing to show for it. Then, in the fading daylight, as our hope of another fish was fading, my line came tight. With a vicious strip set I drove the hook home and the next thing I knew the water exploded. A missle streaked across the river and erupted from the surface. The fish tried to jump several times, with violent gill plate rattling head shakes that I just knew were going to throw the hook. Putting my ten weight to the test, the fish ripped back and forth across the river. I didn't give him an inch, hoping that the 60lb. leader and 80lb. tippet would hold, and it did. With victory in sight, Tim slammed down the anchor, grabbed the net, and guided the beast in. It turned out to be the biggest fish of the trip, estimated at around 44", and my personal best for any fish on a fly.
Over the next three days we pounded water in several different locations and were able to land two smaller musky as well as a few smaller northern pike, but nothing quite like that first day. We saw plenty of other fish, even having a few supermonsters follow flies right up to the boat, only to turn away. That was just fine, that's Musky fishing for ya. Four days, four musky, no complaints here. A big thanks to Tim Tim and Willan the flymaster at the musky shack, I'm looking forward to partying down with you guys next year.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Muskie Madness
Quick update...on the road to Hayward, WI, muskie capitol of the world. More to follow. Things are about to get interesting.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Browntooth Offensive
The Browntooth army was out in full force today, mounting a full scale assault on helpless chernobyl ants. They even sent out the big guns, but the seemingly helpless foamies held the trump card, with a couple of very motivated anglers on the other end of the line. A temporary cease-fire has been called for the night, giving both sides time to formulate their battle plans for tomorrow...
On a sad note, we did stumble upon a very nice 22" brown that was just rolling along with the current. On closer inspection, it appeared to have been smacked by an osprey or eagle, and despite a long time spent trying to help it recover, I eventually pulled the plug. And by pulled the plug I mean it's now in my freezer. I've never knowingly killed a brown before and I hope it's a long long time before I do it again. I rarely eat trout and when I do it's usually a laker or high mountain brookie. I'm not even sure I'm going to be able to eat this one, I might have to donate it to some friends who will.
Friday, July 22, 2011
The Evening Hatch
Snuck out this evening with Kit P. to check out a couple of small-water spots. Once again, staying off the Green paid off with a pile of spunky bows, browns, macs, and even one very confused-looking sucker. Hey, it ate a fly and tugged on the line, what more can we ask for?
We did have one big letdown though. I got wrecked by some unseen force in heavy water. One second my indicator was bobbing along a foam line, and the next it was streaking downward. I tried to stop it, turn it, something, anything, but whatever ate my bug decided that it was going to put all it had into a nosedive and blast directly upstream. After ripping all the line through my fingers and screaming my reel for a few seconds, it was gone, leaving my completely intact rig drifting back downstream toward me. Neither of us saw the fish, but two things are certain: It had to be huge and I know where it lives.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Fish!
Two days of floating without seeing a single other boat on the water. Huh? Weird. Oh, and there's fish there? Interesting....
Friday, July 15, 2011
Crowds?
Aah yes, it's that time of year again, when hordes of Jackson boats descend upon the Pinedale area. Have fun, fellas, I'll be somewhere close by, sight fishing to some seriously aggro rainbows. Here's a taste of a typical 16" brawler giving me a workout on the 7wt with 2x. Note the distinct lack of boats. And yes, that's a 5wt in my pack that an earlier fish decided to have its way with and snap in half.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Ririe Bass Tournament and The Ranch
Idaho again, this time it was the Ririe Bass Tournament. Andrew D. and I met up with Mark Bromley to lay the hurt on some smallmouth. 13 teams showed up in what must be the silliest looking bass tournament ever. Did I mention it's fly only? So picture a bunch of drifboats with little outboards on them buzzing from place to place on a lake, then stopping and rowing around casting at smallies. The "real" bass guys would probably just scratch their heads and wonder what's wrong with us.
The fishing wasn't exactly on fire all day, but we did pull several smallfaces and had a good time of it. Of course, true to form, none of our fish met the minimum length requirement for submission and the Pinedale boys sat out another weigh in.
All in all, there was great weather, cold beer, and plenty of laughs. After weigh-in, most folks packed up and headed north to the Trouthunter at Last Chance on the Henry's Fork. The Ranch was set to open the next morning and the Trouthunter held its annual opener bash. A veritable who's who of rogues and ruffians of the WY/ID/MT fishing community showed up for live music, a big 'ol pig roast, and a party that lasted well into the morning hours.
Opening morning brought people staggering zombie-like out of their trucks and into the trouthunter for a killer breakfast before wandering down the banks of the fabled Harriman Ranch. Bluebird skies and plenty of bug activity greeted us as we walked downstream, vigilantly watching the water for any sign of a feeding fish. For those unfamiliar, the Ranch is the epitome of technical dry fly fishing. You spot a feeding fish, stalk up to within position, and make the best presentation you've got. And most of the time you're going to get shut down. But if you do manage to make a perfect presentation and achieve a perfect drift with just the right fly, you may just have that tank rainbow come up and slurp it in. This was not the case on this day. The wind steadily increased all day, knocking the bugs down and making casting difficult at best. After watching water for most of the day without seeing more than a couple rises, we finally decided to pack it in. Prime time it's not, and so once again, we have to wait.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Runoff. Ick.
Dude, this runoff totally sucks. In fact, we knew heading out that it would "suck balls." Everything from Idaho to Utah to Colorado is blown out due to the huge snowpack in the mountains. Today's excursion was full of loathing at the horrible conditions that always accompany this time of year. He he he.
Oh yeah, there's some language in the videos. This tends to happen a lot around runoff time. So don't say you weren't warned.
Oh yeah, there's some language in the videos. This tends to happen a lot around runoff time. So don't say you weren't warned.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Blackfoot. Again.
A few thousand miles away, somewhere in southeast Idaho's high country, they began gathering. Fish bums. And not your ordinary fish bums. Messed up fish bums. The kind that will endure shitty weather and raging hangovers in the pursuit of...ok, that all sounds pretty standard, really. What else could it be, if not the Fin Chasers Carp Classic 7? The bums started showing up two days before the tournament and were well entrenched by the time I rolled in with Andrew D. and Kit P. the night before the thing officially kicked off.
There's gold at the end of that rainbow...
The tournament commenced as usual, with a furious dust cloud departing camp as soon as the morning meeting concluded. In keeping with tradition, the weather on friday was pretty lousy. Overcast, scattered showers, and heavy wind. With no prospect of finding fish on the horizon, some folks found sleeping on the back of their team's boat more productive...
Despite conditions being pretty nasty, the party got going friday night and eventually the wind died down, the rain stopped, and the fires burned bright until early the next morning. Upon daybreak, we were greeted by two glorious things, Gary the lifesaver cooking breakfast as he always does during the event, and a dead calm, bluebird day.
The fishing that followed on that saturday can only be described as legendary. The weigh in at the end of the day resulted in the largest tally ever recorded in the history of the tournament. Of course, my team contributed approximately nothing to that tally. We did, however, set a new team best of hooking a half dozen fish during the course of the day. Maybe next year we'll actually land something...
Time for an update
Ok, where to begin? I suppose I'll have to go back to the end of April, with a week bouncing around Florida with Stuart Bradow. We started near Orlando on some very fishy bass water. Stuart's daughter Sarah met up with us for some bigmouth action and proceeded to show the boys how it's done.
Poppers and big hairy topwater bugs were the order of the day, with angry greenfish exploding through the roof to destroy whatever made a lot of noise.
As the sun set, Stuart and I hit the road to the Keys, driving overnight and finally getting in to Big Pine just in time to drop the boat in and cruise the flats in search of whatever we could find.
I'd heard it had been a tough spring, with water temps over the winter being a bit colder than usual. Well, we found out the hard way just how true that was. With three long days spent prowling between Big Pine and Key West, we only spotted a handful of bones and permit, only one of which was even remotely interested in having a look at a fly. Ouch. We did manage a few mangrove snappers around some wrecks, but the big boys just didn't want to play. It was time to change it up. Hitting the road again, we cruised up to the Tampa Bay area and met up with Stuart's brother to chase speckled trout and redfish. At this point the Florida boys were resorting to bait, but I just had to throw flies.
We got into the trout pretty heavy, with some big schools working in the bay. I also managed to pick up a lizardfish and a wee baby jack crevalle for good measure. And by wee, I mean wee.
At this point, you may be asking yourself "Really? That's it?" Well, yeah. That's it. We didn't see a lot of fish. And that's just fine with me. We fished hard and did everything right, and for the most part, the fish just weren't there. What was there was great weather, good friends, cold beers, and a lot of laughs. And that's every bit as important. Which brings us to the next thing....
Poppers and big hairy topwater bugs were the order of the day, with angry greenfish exploding through the roof to destroy whatever made a lot of noise.
As the sun set, Stuart and I hit the road to the Keys, driving overnight and finally getting in to Big Pine just in time to drop the boat in and cruise the flats in search of whatever we could find.
I'd heard it had been a tough spring, with water temps over the winter being a bit colder than usual. Well, we found out the hard way just how true that was. With three long days spent prowling between Big Pine and Key West, we only spotted a handful of bones and permit, only one of which was even remotely interested in having a look at a fly. Ouch. We did manage a few mangrove snappers around some wrecks, but the big boys just didn't want to play. It was time to change it up. Hitting the road again, we cruised up to the Tampa Bay area and met up with Stuart's brother to chase speckled trout and redfish. At this point the Florida boys were resorting to bait, but I just had to throw flies.
We got into the trout pretty heavy, with some big schools working in the bay. I also managed to pick up a lizardfish and a wee baby jack crevalle for good measure. And by wee, I mean wee.
At this point, you may be asking yourself "Really? That's it?" Well, yeah. That's it. We didn't see a lot of fish. And that's just fine with me. We fished hard and did everything right, and for the most part, the fish just weren't there. What was there was great weather, good friends, cold beers, and a lot of laughs. And that's every bit as important. Which brings us to the next thing....
Monday, April 25, 2011
Ready to Rumble
It's snowing in Pinedale. Again. And it looks like it'll keep doing that more or less all this week. I was planning on heading to Texas to chase reds and bass but unfortunately the trip got canceled and left me stuck in the frozen north. Oh wait, no it didn't. After some last-minute scrambling, a plan was formulated. I'm heading down to Florida to meet up with my buddy Stu for an epic week of chasing whatever swims. The plan for now is to hit up big bass, tailing redfish and some hefty seatrout for a day then blast down to the Keys and get salty. We'll try to find some peacock bass on the way down in some of the freshwater canals in south Fl. Neither of us has targeted them specifically before, so it could be good or a complete disaster. Hopefully it's the former.
We're looking at hitting a few different places in the Keys. It's the beginning of prime time for the big 3 down there: tarpon, bonefish, and permit. There are also a bunch of lesser targeted fish to keep us occupied if the classics aren't cooperating. Snapper, snook, sharks, you name it. My outlook: if it swims in front of me, it gets hit with a fly. We'll end up at mile 0 in Key West and may even head out to the Maraquesas for some less traveled flats before turning around and heading north again to meet up with Stu's brother and a little offshore action in the Gulf.
That's a lot of fishing. And we've got a week to do it, which means we're going to be totally fried by the end of it. My last trip to the Keys was pretty much a blowout, with heavy winds making fishing extremely difficult. The weather outlook this time looks a lot better. Even so, I'll probably be checking the updates all day tomorrow as I'm sitting in airports. One of the big problems with living in the middle of nowhere is the simple fact that "you can't get there from here, ayuh." There's pretty much no way to get a direct flight to anywhere. Oh well. I'll post updates as we go and there will be plenty of pictures and possible video. Stay tuned...
We're looking at hitting a few different places in the Keys. It's the beginning of prime time for the big 3 down there: tarpon, bonefish, and permit. There are also a bunch of lesser targeted fish to keep us occupied if the classics aren't cooperating. Snapper, snook, sharks, you name it. My outlook: if it swims in front of me, it gets hit with a fly. We'll end up at mile 0 in Key West and may even head out to the Maraquesas for some less traveled flats before turning around and heading north again to meet up with Stu's brother and a little offshore action in the Gulf.
That's a lot of fishing. And we've got a week to do it, which means we're going to be totally fried by the end of it. My last trip to the Keys was pretty much a blowout, with heavy winds making fishing extremely difficult. The weather outlook this time looks a lot better. Even so, I'll probably be checking the updates all day tomorrow as I'm sitting in airports. One of the big problems with living in the middle of nowhere is the simple fact that "you can't get there from here, ayuh." There's pretty much no way to get a direct flight to anywhere. Oh well. I'll post updates as we go and there will be plenty of pictures and possible video. Stay tuned...
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Blackfoot Carp Classic 7, May 20-21 2011
Ok folks, May 20-21 2011. Goldfish wrangling. Golden bones. Carpalooza. Freshwater permit (ok, maybe that's a stretch). whatever you want to call it, the seventh annual Blackfoot Carp Classic will be happening at Blackfoot Reservoir, just outside of Soda Springs, ID. This is a FUN event that brings folks from all over the place to support a good cause. Every year, the proceeds go to a different member of the fly fishing community who can really use a hand. This year they'll be going to Lyle "Ooley" Piram, longtime competitor and team captain of the Ooley Buggers, to help with some pretty serious medical expenses. If you don't know Ooley, he's a great guy who's given a lot of himself over the years. So come on out and show some support, have a ton of fun, and rub shoulders with the best and the worst in this crazy game we call Carpin.
For those of you who haven't been there in years past, here's a few things to keep in mind:
Blackfoot is huge and there are lots of places to fish. There are a ton of 2-track roads surrounding the lake that provide access from the main roads. While there are plenty of areas that are accessible to low-clearance 2wd vehicles, 4wd and a little clearance will open up a lot more options.
The closest reliable town/civilization/supplies is Soda Springs. Do not plan on being able to get gas/food/beer/firewood at any of the other little towns that show up on the map closer to Blackfoot. There are a few places around, but nothing reliable. Bring whatever you'd need to camp for a few days. There's plenty of space for RV's/campers but no hookups. Keep in mind that you may end up doing a fair bit of driving over the course of the tournament and plan accordingly.
Cell service is spotty and an Idaho fishing license is required to enter. While you can purchase a license over the phone, don't plan on doing it when you get there. Get it beforehand and save yourself the trouble of playing the "stand on top of a camper with one foot in the air to get service" game. Idaho F&G: 800-554-8685.
Weather. It's spring, it's high elevation, and it's unpredictable. Be prepared for anything from 80 degrees and sunny to 25 degrees and blowing snow. While we all hope for great weather, being unprepared can ruin the weekend faster than breaking all your rods at once. Which brings me to...
These fish are big. During the previous few years the average fish weighed in went 10-20 pounds with plenty above that. Most folks are using 7-9 wt. rods. If you don't have anything that heavy, you can get away with lighter rods as long as you're ready for a long fight (lots of backing helps). Whatever you bring, it's very advisable to bring a backup just in case. These fish aren't the most violent fighters in the world, but they can pull really really hard.
Getting your fish to weigh-in. Carp are tough. Damn tough. "Live wells" here usually consist of nothing more than a big cooler with a little water in it. While your fish don't have to be alive to count, a live fish weighs more than a dead one. For those of you concerned about the mortality rate, most of the fish kept in a cooler are successfully released after being weighed in. Like I said, damn tough. Also, carp are invasive and incredibly prolific. In past years Idaho F&G has encouraged killing them. The choice is yours.
If you can, get out and get some practice. While not doing well come tournament time will have no impact on anything at any point in your life, it's a lot more fun if you're catching fish. If you've never been to Blackfoot, maybe get there a day early and check it out. The carp here are big, spooky, can be tough to spot, and tend to be picky about what they eat. That being said, there are absurd numbers of them. If you mess up a shot at one, chances are there'll be another one (or 20) close by.
Bring cash. This is a fundraiser, remember? You'll kick yourself if you don't get in on some raffle action. Trust me on this one. Rods, lines, gear, float trips, there will be something that makes you go "damn, I shoulda bought a raffle ticket or 20"
This is a fun event. The tournament runs Friday-Saturday and most people stick around until Sunday. Why? While all the teams tend to go their separate ways during the day, the party starts at weigh-in each night. Immediately after, the grills get going, campfires kick off (bring your own wood), and it's generally a camp-wide social gathering of good people trading fish stories. A lot of folks here are somehow involved in the fly fishing industry and it's a great place to meet some new people and maybe learn a little something.
Need more info? For official rules, registration info, or anything else official, get in touch with Todd or Brooks (their info is on the poster, click on it to make it larger). For unofficial info, tips, or general "what the hell is this all about" questions, feel free to leave a comment here or drop me an email, fishindog.net@gmail.com
I hope to see you there, now get out and go fish!
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
The Gorge - Whaaaaaaat?
Eager to get some fishing time in, Andrew D. and I headed down to the gorge early monday morning. We were greeted with bluebird skies, light wind, and absurdly good fishing. Oh wait, that didn't happen. It was bluebird and the wind was light up on the rim, but dropping into A Section we were slapped in the face with a blast rushing downstream. It never let up. Oh and the water was cranking at 3060 cfs, more than twice the usual winter flow. Wade fishing was tough. Really tough. Andrew managed four fish in one spot and that was it for the day. I batted a solid .000 unless you count catching myself with a barbed fly, pinning two shirts squarely onto my elbow. That was fun. I see lockjaw in my future. On the upside, I did manage to spend a bit more time behind the camera and have started compiling footage for a video project. Notice the bush in the corner at the end of the clip here, that's the wind we had to deal with.
After a rather nice evening at camp (despite the Utah near-beer), we decided to bail on the river and go find some carp. Having never actually fished for them in that reservoir, the search started slowly.
Dead ends, deep water, and hordes of bovine marauders met us at every turn but eventually we found some promising signs...
That's right, kids, when you're lost in the high desert looking for carp, pay attention to what you see. Signs of a bud light hatch tend to indicate suitable carp habitat somewhere close. Also, sightings of varmint cong tend to be elevated in these areas. Sure enough, we found it and it was prime habitat, however the water was still way too cold and the goldfish haven't moved into the shallows yet. We're getting there though, it won't be long....
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
The Creek
I've been working on this one for a while, and it turned out a bit longer than originally intended. Ok, a lot longer. I hope you enjoy. Also, the translation from MSWord to here sort of screws up the indentation and I'm not about to go back through and fix it all. Deal with it.
A young boy walked down to the creek one day, a shiny new fly rod and a film can full of flies in his hand. He’d been given the rod as a present for his birthday and with a head full of wonder and excitement headed down to the water. Visions of unknown fish danced through his mind of the monsters that lurked in the deep. The creek’s slow currents winding along carried his imagination with them, conjuring up ideas of the boy as the greatest fisherman that ever stalked those banks.
All afternoon he fished, or tried to, as the mysterious water refused to give up its bounty. His line snarled, his flies were all lost and those fish of his dreams faded away into endless frustration. Giving up, he tossed the rod and now empty can into the bushes as he plodded down the bank.
“You planning on leaving those there?” The stern voice coming from the bushes startled him. He hadn’t seen anyone else and now felt the hot rush of embarrassment surge through him. Not only had he made a miserable display of fishing prowess but now he was probably going to get in trouble for tossing his junk on the bank. From behind a bush appeared a man in a faded jacket and funny looking pants. The boy quickly sized him up. He was older than the boy’s father had been and although his first instinct was to make a dash into the bushes, his words made the boy stop. “Cause you’re not going to catch anything that way.”
“There’s nothing in here anyway” the boy replied.
“Sure there is,” replied the man. “You’ve just got to listen to what they’re telling you.”
Now the boy was sure the man was teasing him and didn’t like it one bit. Seeing the disbelief in his face, the man said, “Wait just a minute and I’ll show you.” He disappeared behind the bushes and reappeared a moment later with an old bamboo rod in his hand. “If you listen to the water, she’ll tell you all you need to know.” Stepping into the creek, the old man pulled several handfuls of line off of his reel. He then drew the rod up and back, then forward, now back again. The boy watched as the man’s line grew longer and longer in the air and then settled down on the water without the slightest splash. His fly touched down behind a slight ripple on the surface and disappeared before the boy knew what had happened. The line suddenly came tight and in a few moments the man held a fish in his hands. The boy marveled at its colors, red and green and silver, a spotted marvel the likes of which he’d never seen.
The boy watched as the man knelt in the water and let the fish slip through his hands. With a flash, it was gone. “Why’d you let him go” asked the boy. The man smiled a little at him as he stood up.
“So he’ll be there to catch another day.” The boy was a bit confused by all this. In his mind, there was no point in letting the fish go. Why not bring it home? Seeing the confusion on the boy’s face, the man simply said “There’s more to it than just dinner. And speaking of dinner, it’s getting to be about that time, shouldn’t you be getting home?” The boy, suddenly realizing that he was probably facing a scolding for not being home on time, quickly gathered up his rod and film can. “Hey wait a second,” the man said, “if you want, come on back down tomorrow and we’ll see about getting you a fish.”
Not really sure what to say, the boy just nodded and scampered off into the bushes.
After watching him go, the man sat down on the bank. He hadn’t been on the water in a long time. It was a strange feeling, being here. He closed his eyes and felt the breeze on his face, listening to the quiet bubbling of the creek as it flowed over its cobbled bottom. It was a good feeling, like the embrace of an old friend welcoming him home. Opening his eyes, he saw that the sun was creeping lower on the horizon and the first of the evening’s caddis flies were starting to play on the slower water, met with the occasional subtle rise of a trout. The man sat and watched until it was too dark to see.
The boy stood at the side of the creek, rod in hand. “This is stupid,” he thought, as the old man was nowhere to be seen and the boy had no flies to tie on to his line. He wandered aimlessly down the bank, tossing sticks into the water and watching them drift downstream with the current. Seeing a large stone half submerged in the water, he grabbed its edges and pulled with all his childish might, managing to turn it partway over.
“What’s under there?” a voice behind him asked. Startled, the boy turned around to see the old man watching him from further up the bank.
“Oh. Umm, nothing, really.”
“Really?” said the man, “are you sure?” The old man walked down the bank toward the boy. “I bet if you looked a little closer you might see something.” The boy looked at the underside of the rock again, and sure enough, there were a few little “things” crawling across it.
“What are those?” he asked.
“Well, let’s see” said the man. Taking a knee among the cobbles, the old man stuck his hand in the hole the rock had left in the bank and brought it back up in a clenched fist. The boy looked on in puzzlement. Opening his hand, the man revealed several of the squirming little creatures. “Look closely” he said. The boy looked closely, very closely, and saw several of the most horrible looking beings imaginable, truly the stuff of nightmares.
“EEEWWWW!!!” The old man chuckled as he brushed all but one of them off of his hand.
“They’re nothing to be afraid of, they’re just little bugs,” he said. “They can’t hurt you, in fact, they’re going to help you fish.”
“Whaddayamean?” asked the boy.
“Well, this is a stonefly” said the man, holding out his open hand. “They live on the bottom of the stream, under rocks and such and sometimes they get washed downstream. The fish sit in the water and wait for these little guys to float by so they can eat them. If they don’t get eaten, then at some point they will crawl up out of the water and start flying around.”
“Soo that’s what my flies are supposed to be?”
“Some of them, but there’s lots of different types, different bugs and flies to match them depending on what the fish are eating. Here, let’s see what you’ve got in your box.”
The boy, looking rather sheepish, said “I don’t have a box. And I don’t have any more flies, I lost them all.”
The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. Opening it, he showed it to the boy. “Now which of these do you think the fish are going to want to eat?”
“I don’t know, maybe that one.” The boy didn’t see any that looked like the stonefly.
“Hmm, maybe” said the man. “Hold on a second.” He turned and walked over to the bushes, looking for something. A moment later he returned and again opened his hand for the boy to see. A bug scurried about in it, its wings laid flat against it back, its antennae waving about. “Find one that looks like this.” The boy looked back at the box and found what he thought sort of resembled the bug.
“How about this one?” He held it up for the man to see.
“That one will probably work,” said the man. “This is the adult version of that little stonefly from under the rock and that fly you’re holding is meant to imitate it. Let’s give it a try”
The boy eagerly tied the fly on to his line and splashed into the water, waving his rod about in an attempt to cast. The old man sat back and watched as he tied on his own fly.
“Can I make a suggestion?” he asked from the bank. The boy stopped and turned around again.
“Yeah.”
“Ok, let’s start with your cast.”
As the summer days stretched on, the boy learned more and more. For an hour or two every day, the old man would appear through the bushes and show him different bugs, knots to practice, and how to actually get his fly where it needed to be. He showed the boy how the water moved around the stones and where the fish would be. Every day, he would give the boy a handful of flies to try. Eventually, the boy landed his first fish. The old man said he could take it home as long as he at it, and he promptly ran home carrying his trophy. It was a rainbow, much like the one he had seen the old man catch the first day they met. And just like that first day, the old man would always send the boy on his way before it got dark.
The boy’s curiosity got the better of him one day. He hadn’t seen the man actually fish since that first day and figured that the old man was waiting until he left to fish. He was right, of course. After the man sent him on his way, the boy crept back through the bushes and hid as best he could where the man wouldn’t see him. Instead of fishing right where he was, however, the man started moving upstream. The boy followed, careful not to make too much noise lest the man hear him. Further and further he went, to a bend in the creek the boy had never been to. It looked deep, and bushes hung over the bank, throwing shadows in the fading daylight. As he watched, the man stopped just below the pool and quietly moved into the water, almost without a sound. He peeled several arm lengths of line off his reel and stood there, fly in hand, just staring at the water. Just as the boy was beginning to wonder if he was ever going to cast, a slight disturbance on the surface caught his attention. It was subtle, so slight that the boy wondered if he’d really seen it. He stared more intently. What seemed like forever passed and yes, there it was again. Still, the man stood there, watching. Again, the surface rippled and from his hiding place behind a log the boy thought he saw a nose this time. The old man saw it too, and letting his fly drop onto the water, swept up his arm and began to cast.
The man cast his fly back and forth, letting line out with each cast but not setting the fly down on the water. The boy sat, transfixed on the graceful curve of the line, its shape unfolding on each cast. His casts looked nothing like that, often getting tangled in midair or slapping the water. Suddenly, the line dropped and the man’s fly touched down on the water without leaving so much as a ripple. It floated down the slow current and under the bushes to where the fish had risen. And there, it was again. The fly disappeared, and the man did nothing. The boy, overcome with excitement, had to stifle a gasp that would surely have given away his hiding spot. Letting his line drift further down with the current, the man quietly reeled it back in and slowly waded out of the water as quietly as he had entered.
Watching him walk back down the bank, the boy sat in his hiding spot, perplexed. Why hadn’t he set the hook? The fish had taken the fly and…what? It made no sense, and the boy puzzled over what he had just seen replaying it over and over as he made his way home.
That night the man sat down a desk that hadn’t seen use in a long time. Placing a hook in his old vice, he began to spin thread around it, carefully making sure each wrap sat evenly next to the last. Working his way around the hook, he added bits of hair and feather until he was satisfied with the way it looked. Taking the fly out of the vise, he pondered where to put it. A stack of little plastic boxes occupied one corner of the desk, but that just didn’t feel right. Setting the fly down, he reached down and opened the bottom drawer of the desk, producing two pieces of roughly cut mahogany. He held them up under the light, gently blowing the dust off. A photograph fell out from between the pieces. Picking it up, he looked at the familiar faces smiling back at him. Had it really been that long? He leaned the picture against the back of the desk and looked at the two pieces of wood. They looked the same as when he had put them away, dark grain with a shallow depression on one side of each. Perhaps it was time. Reaching into the drawer again he pulled out a small knife, its blade and handle worn with time. Testing the blade, he found it still as sharp as the day he had set it down. Taking one piece of wood in hand, he took a deep breath and began to carefully shave its edges.
The boy was getting better, sneaking up on riffles in the creek, picking a good fly to use, and casting with some success. He enjoyed watching his fly bob downstream on the current and suddenly disappear with a flash. He didn’t always land them, but he was getting better at that as well. As the days started getting shorter and the nights cooler, the old man would sometimes make a few casts before the boy went home. When he did, he usually caught fish. The boy thought that one day, he too would be that good. Before sending the boy home one night, the man asked to see the film can that held his flies.
“What for?” asked the boy.
“I just want to see what you have in there,” answered the man, knowing full well what was in there. After all, he had given the boy everything it contained. The boy handed it over and the man opened it, shook it around a bit, and said “ok, now hold out your hand.” The boy did as he was told, and the man promptly dumped the contents of the can into his hand.
“Why’d you do that?” the boy asked, confused.
“Because you don’t need the can anymore,” he said. Reaching into his pocket, he produced a wooden box. “It’s time your flies had a proper home.”
The boy set his flies down on a rock and held the box in his hands. It was polished almost to a shine, dark wood with a stonefly carved into one side. Turning it over, he saw that his initials were carved into the other side. There was a small groove on one edge, and pulling against it he heard a quiet click and the box opened on its tiny hinges. The inside of the box was recessed and lined with rippled foam. “Go ahead, you can put your flies in there any way you want.” The boy sat down and carefully arranged his small pile of flies into neat little rows in the box, sorting them by size and type. When he was finished, the old man said “ok, now run along, its getting late.”
“Um, thanks,” said the boy, still staring at the box.
“You’re welcome, and you’re probably going to miss dinner if you don’t get moving.”
“Ok, I’ll see you later,” he said, and with that picked up his rod and walked up the bank and through the bushes.
When he had gone, the old man walked up the bank toward his usual bend in the creek, a small smile playing across his face. The box was something he had waited a long time to finish, something he thought would sit in that drawer forever, just collecting dust. It felt good to finish it, just as it had to watch the boy learn. Reaching the bend in the creek, the man once again slipped into the water, watching that spot under the bushes. The boy, as usual, watched from his hiding place behind the log, the grass under his knees now well worn.
Several days later, as the man made his way down the path to the creek, he noticed the leaves on the bushes were starting to fade. The air had the scent of cold on the way, and he knew the summer was near over. Another season was passing, and a good one it had been. The boy had done well and the old man was proud of him. He found himself thinking of those first awkward casts and the boy’s reaction to seeing that stonefly. He chuckled softly to himself. Reaching the cobbled bank of the creek, the man looked upstream and down but the boy wasn’t there. This was strange, he thought, since the boy was always there before he was. Telling himself that the boy would be along shortly, he set down what he was carrying and sat in the grass, leaning against a tree trunk. He found himself looking at his old rod in the grass next to him, something his father had made for him when he was young. Despite its nicks and scratches, the cane still looked almost new. He could probably refinish it at some point, but it could wait. He’d seen enough of his workbench lately. His gaze shifted to the other item he’d been carrying. He resisted the temptation to unwrap the cloth and look at it again, just to make sure it was right. He’d gone over it and over it after finishing it, making sure it was perfect. “It wouldn’t have changed,” he told himself again. “Besides, it won’t be long now.”
He woke slowly, aware that his hands were cold. Opening his eyes, he saw that it had become late, the sun almost to the horizon. It wasn’t the first time he’d dozed off under this tree, but where was the boy? Usually the boy would wake him with a shout after landing a fish. But he was nowhere to be seen. Maybe… picking up his things, the man walked up the bank toward his bend. In the fading light, he could just make out a single rise under the bush. But the boy was nowhere to be seen, not even behind the log that he thought hid him so well.
Days passed, and the weather turned colder. Eventually the creek froze and the man hung up his waders for the winter. All winter the old man wondered about the boy as he sat at his desk and tied flies. The old picture leaning there had been joined by a newer one, this boy holding his first fish, smiling ear to ear. The old man had taken the picture that day and given a copy to the boy. He would also find himself looking at the cloth wrapper in the corner. He knew the boy lived somewhere near the creek and thought about leaving it on his doorstep, but which house? It would have to wait.
And wait it did, as spring, then summer came and went and the boy never returned to the creek. The old man still went every day, sometimes wetting a line and sometimes just sitting on the bank watching for rises. The years passed, and time wore on. Sometimes he’d see other people at the creek, but not the boy. Some of the other fishermen would sometimes ask to see what he carried in the cloth bundle, but he always politely declined. He would sometimes sit and think about opening it, but would dismiss the thought almost as soon as it came to him. It wasn’t his, and it would stay that way.
It was getting tougher to walk on the cobbled bank, he thought. The wading staff helped a little, but his balance just wasn’t what it used to be. All the same, he made his way slowly upstream. Reaching the bend he was so familiar with, he set down his bundle in front of a log and watched under the bush. Every few minutes he thought he saw a subtle rise give away the presence of a fish. “Well, I guess it’s now or never,” he muttered to himself while rubbing his eyes. Pulling a box out of his faded jacket, he selected a small fly. Tying it on was also getting tough. He took a deep breath and tried to steady his shaking hand. After several tries he managed to get the leader through and tie the knot. Peeling off a few arm lengths of line, he held his fly and stared at the water. Seeing another rise, he dropped his fly in the water and swept up his arm into a cast. Suddenly the years forgot their hold, and the line danced through the air as gracefully as ever, a perfect loop unfolding with each stroke. A single tear rolled slowly down his weathered face. “You know you’re not as sneaky as you used to be,” he said mid-cast.
“I wasn’t sure you’d be here.”
The old man’s gaze stayed focused under the bush. A small smile crept into his face. “If you’d come out from behind that log, you might find something interesting.” His fly touched down just upstream of the fish. It disappeared a split second later, the water barely moving with the take.
“You’re not going to set that are you?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not my fish. Look down.” The young boy, now a young man, looked down and saw a cloth bundle tucked against the front of the log. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands, knowing immediately what it was. There was a name stitched onto the side.
“That’s…” Looking up, he found the old man standing in front of him. He’d slipped out of the water as silently as ever and was now looking directly at the boy. “That was my father’s name, how did you…” Looking into the old man’s eyes, suddenly the boy knew. He knew those eyes from a long time ago, from before he’d ever met the old man.
“I never got to finish it for him. So I finished it for you. I knew one way or another you’d get it. I just hoped it would be here.” He could see the astonishment on the boy’s face. “He was just like you, you know. Even used to hide behind that old log there.” The old man wiped a tear from his eye. “He never got a chance to cast to that fish over there. I think it’s time you did.”
A young boy walked down to the creek one day, a shiny new fly rod and a film can full of flies in his hand. He’d been given the rod as a present for his birthday and with a head full of wonder and excitement headed down to the water. Visions of unknown fish danced through his mind of the monsters that lurked in the deep. The creek’s slow currents winding along carried his imagination with them, conjuring up ideas of the boy as the greatest fisherman that ever stalked those banks.
All afternoon he fished, or tried to, as the mysterious water refused to give up its bounty. His line snarled, his flies were all lost and those fish of his dreams faded away into endless frustration. Giving up, he tossed the rod and now empty can into the bushes as he plodded down the bank.
“You planning on leaving those there?” The stern voice coming from the bushes startled him. He hadn’t seen anyone else and now felt the hot rush of embarrassment surge through him. Not only had he made a miserable display of fishing prowess but now he was probably going to get in trouble for tossing his junk on the bank. From behind a bush appeared a man in a faded jacket and funny looking pants. The boy quickly sized him up. He was older than the boy’s father had been and although his first instinct was to make a dash into the bushes, his words made the boy stop. “Cause you’re not going to catch anything that way.”
“There’s nothing in here anyway” the boy replied.
“Sure there is,” replied the man. “You’ve just got to listen to what they’re telling you.”
Now the boy was sure the man was teasing him and didn’t like it one bit. Seeing the disbelief in his face, the man said, “Wait just a minute and I’ll show you.” He disappeared behind the bushes and reappeared a moment later with an old bamboo rod in his hand. “If you listen to the water, she’ll tell you all you need to know.” Stepping into the creek, the old man pulled several handfuls of line off of his reel. He then drew the rod up and back, then forward, now back again. The boy watched as the man’s line grew longer and longer in the air and then settled down on the water without the slightest splash. His fly touched down behind a slight ripple on the surface and disappeared before the boy knew what had happened. The line suddenly came tight and in a few moments the man held a fish in his hands. The boy marveled at its colors, red and green and silver, a spotted marvel the likes of which he’d never seen.
The boy watched as the man knelt in the water and let the fish slip through his hands. With a flash, it was gone. “Why’d you let him go” asked the boy. The man smiled a little at him as he stood up.
“So he’ll be there to catch another day.” The boy was a bit confused by all this. In his mind, there was no point in letting the fish go. Why not bring it home? Seeing the confusion on the boy’s face, the man simply said “There’s more to it than just dinner. And speaking of dinner, it’s getting to be about that time, shouldn’t you be getting home?” The boy, suddenly realizing that he was probably facing a scolding for not being home on time, quickly gathered up his rod and film can. “Hey wait a second,” the man said, “if you want, come on back down tomorrow and we’ll see about getting you a fish.”
Not really sure what to say, the boy just nodded and scampered off into the bushes.
After watching him go, the man sat down on the bank. He hadn’t been on the water in a long time. It was a strange feeling, being here. He closed his eyes and felt the breeze on his face, listening to the quiet bubbling of the creek as it flowed over its cobbled bottom. It was a good feeling, like the embrace of an old friend welcoming him home. Opening his eyes, he saw that the sun was creeping lower on the horizon and the first of the evening’s caddis flies were starting to play on the slower water, met with the occasional subtle rise of a trout. The man sat and watched until it was too dark to see.
The boy stood at the side of the creek, rod in hand. “This is stupid,” he thought, as the old man was nowhere to be seen and the boy had no flies to tie on to his line. He wandered aimlessly down the bank, tossing sticks into the water and watching them drift downstream with the current. Seeing a large stone half submerged in the water, he grabbed its edges and pulled with all his childish might, managing to turn it partway over.
“What’s under there?” a voice behind him asked. Startled, the boy turned around to see the old man watching him from further up the bank.
“Oh. Umm, nothing, really.”
“Really?” said the man, “are you sure?” The old man walked down the bank toward the boy. “I bet if you looked a little closer you might see something.” The boy looked at the underside of the rock again, and sure enough, there were a few little “things” crawling across it.
“What are those?” he asked.
“Well, let’s see” said the man. Taking a knee among the cobbles, the old man stuck his hand in the hole the rock had left in the bank and brought it back up in a clenched fist. The boy looked on in puzzlement. Opening his hand, the man revealed several of the squirming little creatures. “Look closely” he said. The boy looked closely, very closely, and saw several of the most horrible looking beings imaginable, truly the stuff of nightmares.
“EEEWWWW!!!” The old man chuckled as he brushed all but one of them off of his hand.
“They’re nothing to be afraid of, they’re just little bugs,” he said. “They can’t hurt you, in fact, they’re going to help you fish.”
“Whaddayamean?” asked the boy.
“Well, this is a stonefly” said the man, holding out his open hand. “They live on the bottom of the stream, under rocks and such and sometimes they get washed downstream. The fish sit in the water and wait for these little guys to float by so they can eat them. If they don’t get eaten, then at some point they will crawl up out of the water and start flying around.”
“Soo that’s what my flies are supposed to be?”
“Some of them, but there’s lots of different types, different bugs and flies to match them depending on what the fish are eating. Here, let’s see what you’ve got in your box.”
The boy, looking rather sheepish, said “I don’t have a box. And I don’t have any more flies, I lost them all.”
The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. Opening it, he showed it to the boy. “Now which of these do you think the fish are going to want to eat?”
“I don’t know, maybe that one.” The boy didn’t see any that looked like the stonefly.
“Hmm, maybe” said the man. “Hold on a second.” He turned and walked over to the bushes, looking for something. A moment later he returned and again opened his hand for the boy to see. A bug scurried about in it, its wings laid flat against it back, its antennae waving about. “Find one that looks like this.” The boy looked back at the box and found what he thought sort of resembled the bug.
“How about this one?” He held it up for the man to see.
“That one will probably work,” said the man. “This is the adult version of that little stonefly from under the rock and that fly you’re holding is meant to imitate it. Let’s give it a try”
The boy eagerly tied the fly on to his line and splashed into the water, waving his rod about in an attempt to cast. The old man sat back and watched as he tied on his own fly.
“Can I make a suggestion?” he asked from the bank. The boy stopped and turned around again.
“Yeah.”
“Ok, let’s start with your cast.”
As the summer days stretched on, the boy learned more and more. For an hour or two every day, the old man would appear through the bushes and show him different bugs, knots to practice, and how to actually get his fly where it needed to be. He showed the boy how the water moved around the stones and where the fish would be. Every day, he would give the boy a handful of flies to try. Eventually, the boy landed his first fish. The old man said he could take it home as long as he at it, and he promptly ran home carrying his trophy. It was a rainbow, much like the one he had seen the old man catch the first day they met. And just like that first day, the old man would always send the boy on his way before it got dark.
The boy’s curiosity got the better of him one day. He hadn’t seen the man actually fish since that first day and figured that the old man was waiting until he left to fish. He was right, of course. After the man sent him on his way, the boy crept back through the bushes and hid as best he could where the man wouldn’t see him. Instead of fishing right where he was, however, the man started moving upstream. The boy followed, careful not to make too much noise lest the man hear him. Further and further he went, to a bend in the creek the boy had never been to. It looked deep, and bushes hung over the bank, throwing shadows in the fading daylight. As he watched, the man stopped just below the pool and quietly moved into the water, almost without a sound. He peeled several arm lengths of line off his reel and stood there, fly in hand, just staring at the water. Just as the boy was beginning to wonder if he was ever going to cast, a slight disturbance on the surface caught his attention. It was subtle, so slight that the boy wondered if he’d really seen it. He stared more intently. What seemed like forever passed and yes, there it was again. Still, the man stood there, watching. Again, the surface rippled and from his hiding place behind a log the boy thought he saw a nose this time. The old man saw it too, and letting his fly drop onto the water, swept up his arm and began to cast.
The man cast his fly back and forth, letting line out with each cast but not setting the fly down on the water. The boy sat, transfixed on the graceful curve of the line, its shape unfolding on each cast. His casts looked nothing like that, often getting tangled in midair or slapping the water. Suddenly, the line dropped and the man’s fly touched down on the water without leaving so much as a ripple. It floated down the slow current and under the bushes to where the fish had risen. And there, it was again. The fly disappeared, and the man did nothing. The boy, overcome with excitement, had to stifle a gasp that would surely have given away his hiding spot. Letting his line drift further down with the current, the man quietly reeled it back in and slowly waded out of the water as quietly as he had entered.
Watching him walk back down the bank, the boy sat in his hiding spot, perplexed. Why hadn’t he set the hook? The fish had taken the fly and…what? It made no sense, and the boy puzzled over what he had just seen replaying it over and over as he made his way home.
That night the man sat down a desk that hadn’t seen use in a long time. Placing a hook in his old vice, he began to spin thread around it, carefully making sure each wrap sat evenly next to the last. Working his way around the hook, he added bits of hair and feather until he was satisfied with the way it looked. Taking the fly out of the vise, he pondered where to put it. A stack of little plastic boxes occupied one corner of the desk, but that just didn’t feel right. Setting the fly down, he reached down and opened the bottom drawer of the desk, producing two pieces of roughly cut mahogany. He held them up under the light, gently blowing the dust off. A photograph fell out from between the pieces. Picking it up, he looked at the familiar faces smiling back at him. Had it really been that long? He leaned the picture against the back of the desk and looked at the two pieces of wood. They looked the same as when he had put them away, dark grain with a shallow depression on one side of each. Perhaps it was time. Reaching into the drawer again he pulled out a small knife, its blade and handle worn with time. Testing the blade, he found it still as sharp as the day he had set it down. Taking one piece of wood in hand, he took a deep breath and began to carefully shave its edges.
The boy was getting better, sneaking up on riffles in the creek, picking a good fly to use, and casting with some success. He enjoyed watching his fly bob downstream on the current and suddenly disappear with a flash. He didn’t always land them, but he was getting better at that as well. As the days started getting shorter and the nights cooler, the old man would sometimes make a few casts before the boy went home. When he did, he usually caught fish. The boy thought that one day, he too would be that good. Before sending the boy home one night, the man asked to see the film can that held his flies.
“What for?” asked the boy.
“I just want to see what you have in there,” answered the man, knowing full well what was in there. After all, he had given the boy everything it contained. The boy handed it over and the man opened it, shook it around a bit, and said “ok, now hold out your hand.” The boy did as he was told, and the man promptly dumped the contents of the can into his hand.
“Why’d you do that?” the boy asked, confused.
“Because you don’t need the can anymore,” he said. Reaching into his pocket, he produced a wooden box. “It’s time your flies had a proper home.”
The boy set his flies down on a rock and held the box in his hands. It was polished almost to a shine, dark wood with a stonefly carved into one side. Turning it over, he saw that his initials were carved into the other side. There was a small groove on one edge, and pulling against it he heard a quiet click and the box opened on its tiny hinges. The inside of the box was recessed and lined with rippled foam. “Go ahead, you can put your flies in there any way you want.” The boy sat down and carefully arranged his small pile of flies into neat little rows in the box, sorting them by size and type. When he was finished, the old man said “ok, now run along, its getting late.”
“Um, thanks,” said the boy, still staring at the box.
“You’re welcome, and you’re probably going to miss dinner if you don’t get moving.”
“Ok, I’ll see you later,” he said, and with that picked up his rod and walked up the bank and through the bushes.
When he had gone, the old man walked up the bank toward his usual bend in the creek, a small smile playing across his face. The box was something he had waited a long time to finish, something he thought would sit in that drawer forever, just collecting dust. It felt good to finish it, just as it had to watch the boy learn. Reaching the bend in the creek, the man once again slipped into the water, watching that spot under the bushes. The boy, as usual, watched from his hiding place behind the log, the grass under his knees now well worn.
Several days later, as the man made his way down the path to the creek, he noticed the leaves on the bushes were starting to fade. The air had the scent of cold on the way, and he knew the summer was near over. Another season was passing, and a good one it had been. The boy had done well and the old man was proud of him. He found himself thinking of those first awkward casts and the boy’s reaction to seeing that stonefly. He chuckled softly to himself. Reaching the cobbled bank of the creek, the man looked upstream and down but the boy wasn’t there. This was strange, he thought, since the boy was always there before he was. Telling himself that the boy would be along shortly, he set down what he was carrying and sat in the grass, leaning against a tree trunk. He found himself looking at his old rod in the grass next to him, something his father had made for him when he was young. Despite its nicks and scratches, the cane still looked almost new. He could probably refinish it at some point, but it could wait. He’d seen enough of his workbench lately. His gaze shifted to the other item he’d been carrying. He resisted the temptation to unwrap the cloth and look at it again, just to make sure it was right. He’d gone over it and over it after finishing it, making sure it was perfect. “It wouldn’t have changed,” he told himself again. “Besides, it won’t be long now.”
He woke slowly, aware that his hands were cold. Opening his eyes, he saw that it had become late, the sun almost to the horizon. It wasn’t the first time he’d dozed off under this tree, but where was the boy? Usually the boy would wake him with a shout after landing a fish. But he was nowhere to be seen. Maybe… picking up his things, the man walked up the bank toward his bend. In the fading light, he could just make out a single rise under the bush. But the boy was nowhere to be seen, not even behind the log that he thought hid him so well.
Days passed, and the weather turned colder. Eventually the creek froze and the man hung up his waders for the winter. All winter the old man wondered about the boy as he sat at his desk and tied flies. The old picture leaning there had been joined by a newer one, this boy holding his first fish, smiling ear to ear. The old man had taken the picture that day and given a copy to the boy. He would also find himself looking at the cloth wrapper in the corner. He knew the boy lived somewhere near the creek and thought about leaving it on his doorstep, but which house? It would have to wait.
And wait it did, as spring, then summer came and went and the boy never returned to the creek. The old man still went every day, sometimes wetting a line and sometimes just sitting on the bank watching for rises. The years passed, and time wore on. Sometimes he’d see other people at the creek, but not the boy. Some of the other fishermen would sometimes ask to see what he carried in the cloth bundle, but he always politely declined. He would sometimes sit and think about opening it, but would dismiss the thought almost as soon as it came to him. It wasn’t his, and it would stay that way.
It was getting tougher to walk on the cobbled bank, he thought. The wading staff helped a little, but his balance just wasn’t what it used to be. All the same, he made his way slowly upstream. Reaching the bend he was so familiar with, he set down his bundle in front of a log and watched under the bush. Every few minutes he thought he saw a subtle rise give away the presence of a fish. “Well, I guess it’s now or never,” he muttered to himself while rubbing his eyes. Pulling a box out of his faded jacket, he selected a small fly. Tying it on was also getting tough. He took a deep breath and tried to steady his shaking hand. After several tries he managed to get the leader through and tie the knot. Peeling off a few arm lengths of line, he held his fly and stared at the water. Seeing another rise, he dropped his fly in the water and swept up his arm into a cast. Suddenly the years forgot their hold, and the line danced through the air as gracefully as ever, a perfect loop unfolding with each stroke. A single tear rolled slowly down his weathered face. “You know you’re not as sneaky as you used to be,” he said mid-cast.
“I wasn’t sure you’d be here.”
The old man’s gaze stayed focused under the bush. A small smile crept into his face. “If you’d come out from behind that log, you might find something interesting.” His fly touched down just upstream of the fish. It disappeared a split second later, the water barely moving with the take.
“You’re not going to set that are you?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not my fish. Look down.” The young boy, now a young man, looked down and saw a cloth bundle tucked against the front of the log. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands, knowing immediately what it was. There was a name stitched onto the side.
“That’s…” Looking up, he found the old man standing in front of him. He’d slipped out of the water as silently as ever and was now looking directly at the boy. “That was my father’s name, how did you…” Looking into the old man’s eyes, suddenly the boy knew. He knew those eyes from a long time ago, from before he’d ever met the old man.
“I never got to finish it for him. So I finished it for you. I knew one way or another you’d get it. I just hoped it would be here.” He could see the astonishment on the boy’s face. “He was just like you, you know. Even used to hide behind that old log there.” The old man wiped a tear from his eye. “He never got a chance to cast to that fish over there. I think it’s time you did.”
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Hurt So Good
What the hell am I doing here? It's a question that I ask myself nearly every time I'm waist deep in that gin-clear water and the trout are laughing at me. They're right there, in plain sight, sitting just below the surface, seemingly without a care in the world. Fly after fly visits the water via the end of my line and produces nothing. OK, that drift was bad, that little current pulled my line, that fly was too big, too flashy, too dull, that fish is blind in one eye. This GODDAMNED WIND! After a while it gets to be too much and that big rock in the sun looks like a great spot to sit for a while, so I do what anyone might do in this situation. Sit on the rock, eat a sandwich, and stare at those devil fish. This sucks. The dog's bored and staring at me as if to say "what's the matter with you, why aren't you catching anything?"
So I do the only thing I can really do in this situation. I finish my sandwich and tie up a different rig of absurdly small tippet and flies and hope this one works. There are bugs everywhere, on the water, in the air and up my nose. Usually, this makes fly selection easy. In this case, however, the miniature size and diversity of said bugs make it extremely difficult to narrow down just what the fish want. The size selection is easy, it's going to be the smallest thing I can find in my box. As far as color and shape, well, that's a different story entirely if you happen to be "prepared" for this sort of thing and have a bunch of different ludicrously small flies in there. Wasn't this supposed to be fun?
And then it happens. The one. Suddenly, whatever I just did worked and there's a spunky rainbow yanking my line through a maze of boulders, trying to break free. Nonsensical muttering ensues. "Nooo dont go that ok over he craaaap not the moss you basta yeah this nooooooo you don ok come this way and get..." Finally there's a fish in my net. It's not a monster by any means, but it's a fish. And suddenly I remember the answer to that question. This is why I'm here. Because that fish didn't come easy. Because four hours of beating my head against a wall finally paid off and I know what they want and how they want it. The dog's on her feet now, staring intently at the water, tail wagging with excitement.
We've all got those places that we return to. Whether it's a tiny spring creek or a particular turtlegrass covered flat, they have a pull on us. For some, it's the promise of lots of fish and constant action. For others, it's the promise of a challenge. Whatever the reason, we have to go back. We can try and resist, pushing the thought from our minds, going to different and exciting places, exploring new waters. But at some point, that place calls us back, and we must answer the call...
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