fishing for words

(and tossing out random thoughts)

Category Archives: Fly Fishing


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anticipation: the early edition

For a few weeks now it’s either been raining like cats and dogs or bitter cold. At least for this neck of the woods, where anything below 40 degrees is uncommon. A day ago it was -18 degrees in the in the Sierra Nevada’s Long Valley Caldera, a little volcanic crater of roughly 200 square miles that I’m not likely to fish at such temperatures. If I do, it’ll be via snowmobile and with a supply of Glen Morangie.

It’s good weather to mark on the new year’s calendar the days that’ll be dedicated to fishing. They’re adding up nicely.

It’s not that I’ll be sitting on my hands until the general trout season reopens. There’s a fly rod to be built and flies to be tied. We’ll finish the rod by early February during a series of Saturday sessions. Fly tying will include giving guidance to a son who wants to learn. Then there are trips to plan.

I think it was about three years ago that the realization set in that there was pleasure to be found in the planning of fishing trips. Planning can be a pain in the arse, sometimes literally, because the Internet has opened the doors to a crushing abundance of information; then it took a while to learn to let go of the niggling worries about the actual outcome of a trip.

So, rather than wantonly throw out New Year’s resolutions that are likely to remain unachieved, my inclination is to etch things in wet cement as soon as possible. Things were set in motion this year by that preference and petitions for early planning from some of the folks who’ve participated in the club-sanctioned trip I lead in the Eastern Sierra.

Lest anyone think that there’s an inherent selflessness in these acts, the record should be set straight. Part of my willingness to teach Sean to tie flies is rooted in the self-serving belief it’s high time that he lose his own flies. It’s with as much resignation as can be mustered that I’ll inform The Wife that I must again act as ‘fishmaster’ for the club’s Eastern Sierra trip, quietly omitting the multitude of benefits it offers.

Most fly fishermen will ascribe good fishing and great scenery to favorite fishing venues. The Eastern Sierra excellently fits that bill and hopes are high that this year it will be even better. The snowpack is in great shape and water levels are good; both point to fantastic things in the fall. For those who’ve never been, the attraction of the Eastern Sierra can be modestly measured by the six folks who’ve already committed to a trip that doesn’t take place for another nine months. Those benefits that need not worry my wife: good food, home-brewed beer and great fishing far away from clocks and everyday concerns.

This year my volunteerism will extend to kindly offering to aid a fellow fly fisherman to get acquainted with Crowley Lake.  We’ll spend our first day on the lake with a guide I’ve employed a few times each of the last several years, as an introduction to Crowley for my friend and an opportunity to update my knowledge of current conditions. During the subsequent days there might just be an occasion or two to spend more time on the lake fishing from my friend’s boat. As you know by now, in no way did this influence my desire to help.


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part two of building a rod: taking shape

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The result of last week's work.

Given that the building of my new rod will begin in earnest shortly after calendars are flipped to 2011, I booked some time with club master rod builder and instructor Wayne to shape the grip glued together just about a week before. So, two days after Christmas, on a drizzly Monday morning, the grip began to take shape.

A bit of ingenious forethought meant that the raw cork rings were mounted on a mandrel that could set into a small lathe, fitting into the chuck on one end and a nipple on the other. The first step, before even considering the shape, was to even out the surface. This was quick and easy to do with a rasp, followed by some pretty large grit sandpaper.

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Beginning the rough shaping.

Then the work began. The first tasks were to slightly round off the edges of the butt end and taper the top.

Shaping began next. Again, Wayne had a homemade tool for this; a piece of wood shaped in the negative image of the desired profile — half wells in this case — and coated with sandpaper. This form included a cutout by which to align the butt edge, ensuring proper application of the form.

After some time and a bit of pressure, the cork became recognizable as a fly rod grip. It took just about as long to fine tune the profile, but sooner than expected we had a serviceable grip. Then the sanding began.

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Roughly the shape we wanted.

Differences between the density of the natural cork rings and the burl cork rings (a composite of colored chunks of cork) required selective sanding to even out the surface and smooth the transition between the rings. With the grip still spinning on the lathe, the final fishing began with 150 grip sandpaper and progressed to 200, 400 and finally 500 grit paper.

After a cleaning, liberal application of cork sealant brought out the colors.

When as was done, though not appearing exactly as I had pictured in my mind, I think it turned out pretty nice.

I’m already thinking ahead to a new grip design for the next rod I hope to build. But first, I have to finish this one.

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The end result and truly unique part of the rod to be.


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the start of a gripping tale

The good thing is that you’ll know it’s one of a kind, allowing you to desperately hold on to the visage of a fly fisherman as a rugged individualist.

Few people will know that there was no settling for the one-style-fits-all notion, and without a close look won’t understand the level of fixation commitment.

While it certainly won’t turn fly rod design on its head, a grip of my own design, which will grace the rod that will be built with my own hands, was pieced together last Saturday.

Just about an hour of the morning was occupied by sawing a few cork rings into thinner slices, playing with glue and setting it all together. Green’s the theme, with green burl cork rings alternating with natural cork, capped by more durable rubber “cork” rings on either end.

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Laying out out the design.

The process is simple and requires little more than a steady hand, a small saw, a vise and sandpaper. A power sander can help speed things along.

The decision to add a bit more custom touch with thinner bands of cork required the use of a simple jig, drilled out to a specific depth at a diameter that would accept the cork ring. A tight fit would keep the cork ring from moving about and the vise would hold the whole assembly in the vertical.

The hope was that pushing the saw blade against the wood jig would allow for a uniform cut parallel to the ends of the ring. It didn’t quite turn out that way, but that’s something that can be fixed with the application of sandpaper and a bit of muscle. The jig again sped the process, as sanding down to the top of the jig would yield a flat surface and facilitate the creation a second, matching ring. So it went: saw, sand, repeat.

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A little dab'll do ya.

After waxing a steel mandrel on which to place the rings, it was time to glue. Gluing them together demanded setting aside the elementary school mentality that more is better as the desire is to minimize the gap between the cork rings. However, too much care and patience meant that I had to later speed things up before the epoxy became useless.

Manufacturers of fly fishing paraphernalia will sell you anything, everything and more than you might need, but in this case a little bit thought and a trip to the hardware store yielded a simple clamp that would be used to finish this step.

In a few days we’ll whip this grip into shape.

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Grip at rest.


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it’s beginning to look a lot like…big brother?

Since ffw is run by a helpful bunch, a word to fellow Golden State fishermen: get your license before heading out on the first trip of the year.

The move by California’s Department of Fish & Game to high-tech licensing (like that already used in Oregon and Washington) means your local shop might not be able to sell a fishing license. The computerized and inventively named Automated License Data System (ADLS) requires the purchase of a terminal, and since there’s no money to be made on the sales of licenses, there’ll be fewer license agents, e.g. your local fly shop. Only shops selling a high volume of licenses will receive the terminals gratis. The current list of ADLS agents shows that a few of the big box retailers and one larger sporting goods chain are part of the system. Another glance at the list shows only one agent in one of our favorite fishing locales.

It might be best to order your license online.

Yes, we’re helpful.

Anticipation of the first step in our first attempt to build a fly rod had something little to do with the absence this week of the insightful, biting and humorous prose you’ve come to expect.

Vintage Fishing License

Circa before my time.


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I’m easy this time of year

Last week, in discussing gift ideas for my two nephews in the Pacific Northwest, I lamented in an email to my brother and his wife the loss of the old, forest-killing Sears Holiday Wishbook that mysteriously appeared on our doorstep every Christmas season. It was discontinued in 1993 and resurrected online in 2009 and while one can go online to request a copy today; it’s a shadow of its former itself. Today’s version is about 100 pages, considerably smaller than the 300-plus page books of my childhood.

Sears WishbookGrowing up, my sister, brother and I would spend countless hours, separately and together, pouring over the colorful pages of everything a kid might want. Items would be circled and page corners folded in the hope that Santa Claus might leave it under the tree.

These days the older nephews (no nieces for me) can posts lists on various websites or shoot me a text message. It’s the younger ones who’d benefit most from a book that can be laid on the floor in front of the fireplace, where they can bask in the warmth of wistful wishes.

Now I’m “growed” up and have my own wishbooks. The Wife will tell anyone, often unsolicited, that she’s married to a 12-year-old boy in a man’s body, and that’s an apt description when I’m leafing through the latest fly fishing catalogs.

Fly fishing lends itself to perpetual gift ideas. Dismissing rods and reels, there’s always a need for new tippet, leader, sometimes for fly lines, that new vest with 52 pockets, an inscribed waterproof cigar box, invasive-species-unfriendly wading boots with rubber soles instead of felt and, for most fly fishermen, there’s always a need for replacement new flies. That’s assuming the fly fisherman in your life doesn’t tie flies. If they do, the door opens to a multitude of materials and tools.

Fly fishing: a small sacrifice I’m willing to make so that gift giving is easier for everyone else.


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another sign of addiction dedication to the fly fishing “hobby”

I took up fly fishing just long enough ago that I still can honestly say I didn’t know what I was getting into. I remember being quite content to cast flies without knowing their names or living counterpart, hooking and landing trout with an inexpensive L.L. Bean rod and a reel without a drag system. A year later, with some classroom training, on-the-water experience and a guided trip under my belt, it was clear that my single fly box, single rod and old sneakers for wet wading would only get me so far.

Fly Rod Anatomy

Fly Rod Anatomy 101

It would get more complicated that I ever imagined. I began to covet the nice casting action of the big brand name rods I was given to use by the guide. Every fishing trip revealed that I didn’t have that one or two or dozen other flies — in two or three sizes, of course — that would have elevated the fishing from good to great, or great to fantastic. My growing expectation that fly fishing raised the odds that I’d hook a larger fish dictated buying a net of perhaps overly optimistic dimensions. My selection of leaders and tippets naturally grew. A second fly box was needed to separate dry flies and nymphs; then a third to accommodate anything else. There was no question that I’d need a vest. Waders meant boots. I did cut some costs building my own $9.58 wading staff out of a dowel, a bike grip, bungee cord and a cane foot.

It took two or three years and more money that my wife knows but soon I had what I thought it took to be considered a well-equipped and modern fly fisherman. I became the owner of more than one rod in the same weight class. Brand names are big in fly fishing, much like other sports, and some folks will stick to a particular brand come hell or high water. Some loyalties extend to models, and it’s not uncommon to hear the lament of that one incredibly sweet — insert rod brand and model name here — that I will never be lucky enough to cast, much less own. I remember beginning to think that one of the reasons that fly fishermen tend to catch and release is that the price per pound of any fish kept would be a bit exorbitant.

I eventually decided to treat myself to a rod upgrade, with the goal of finding one that felt good to me, regardless of price or anyone’s recommendation. I spent more time test casting rods than one might test drive new cars. Thankfully, it was on sale. I picked up a decent reel to go with it.

It was shortly after I christened that new rod and reel that I gradually began to distinguish between what I ‘needed’ and what I wanted. Though well-known brands, neither the new rod nor the new reel were top of the line but they fit me, my abilities and my not-so-conventional casting technique. The reel did its job, holding line, and when required, the drag did a good job taming the occasional hot fish.

I don’t yet have a fly tying room and the corresponding closet in which to store an abundance of gear. The extent of my fly gear storage is a small section on the far side of the garage, with just enough shelf space for five or six rod cases and two wading staffs, waders and boots, and a place to hang my vest and rain jacket. I could probably squeeze in a few more rod cases but as a trout fisherman who hasn’t yet been corrupted by taken up the pursuit of steelhead, stripers or saltwater fish, maybe that’s all the space I need. Yet everything in that space does more than serve a purpose in my fly fishing; every rod, reel and piece of gear means something to me and can give rise to many good memories.

It’s that meaning that’s led to my first attempt to build a rod. That same meaning that comes with fooling fish with flies I’ve tied with my own hands. It’s always amazing and I never tire of it.

Last Saturday I joined our club’s rod building teacher, Wayne, and a dozen or so other students in the workshop of another club member. Lingering clouds in the sky and puddles of rainwater reminded me that trout season was over and that the next few months offered time for off-the-water fly fishing pursuits. A few long tables placed end to end led up to a podium. Catalogs from Anglers Workshop were strewn about, each containing a mind-boggling array of choices. Think of it this way, the most basic components to build a fly rod include a rod blank, a reel seat, a grip, guides and a top. Each of these could be selected from pages and pages of choices. That didn’t include options offered by club members who would fashion custom grips and reel seat inserts.

My choice of the weight (wt.) of my fly rod was arrived at during fishing with my son for the last time this season. We frequent a number of Western Sierra Nevada streams and creeks that, in addition to offering trout, include dense stands of overhanging trees, with braches low enough to snag the tip of my 9-foot 5 wt., often a big hindrance to netting fish. A shorter rod would do nicely in such situations. I decided to aim for something of 8 feet or less. Not yet being a rod fiend collector, I thought it would be nice to fill out my range of rods, so a 4 wt. would fit in and allow me to handle most of the trout I’d meet on these waters. Most importantly, it would be a rod that would get used.

The approximate color of the Pacific Bay Rainforest II rod blank and traditional chrome snake guides and stripping guide.

The approximate color of the Pacific Bay Rainforest II rod blank and traditional chrome snake guides and stripping guide.

With a decision as to the length and weight, other components needed to be selected. Not an easy decision for me. Some will argue that I’m occasionally hyper-focused on details, but I can step back to look at the big picture. In the case of this rod, it required taking into account the overall look. Yes, there was some consideration of a high-speed, low-drag look…titanium or black guides, matching grip and reel seat for that “stealth” look…but that passed rather quickly in favor of a traditional design.

Strube U-24 Nickel Silver Up-Locking Reel Seat w/Vermillion Insert

Come January I’ll begin work on my rod using a Pacific Bay Rainforest II Series 7’6” 4-piece 4 wt. blank (dark green), a Struble U24 Nickel Silver Reel Seat (up-locking, of course) with a Vermillion insert and chrome guides and top.

Non-Artist's Rendering of Possible Grip Configuration

Before that work begins, and to make this a truly unique custom rod, I’ll have to shape the grip, which will be comprised of 12 ½-inch cork rings in natural and “burl green” and two dark rubberized end rings to create a striped seven-inch grip, either in a full wells or reverse half wells design.

If all goes well, you’ll read about this rod’s construction and eventual deployment here.


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another perspective (…or just ask the person landing more fish than you)

…picking up where we left off last week…

A new fly fisherman met the Zen Master after wading hundreds of yards. He was understandably pleased to learn at the great master’s feet.
      “Look at the fish swimming about,” said the Master, “They are really enjoying themselves.”
      “You are not a fish,” replied the fly fishing student. “You can’t truly know that they are enjoying themselves.”
      “You are not me,” replied the Master. “So how do you know that I do not know that the fish are enjoying themselves?”

The two men who taught me fly fishing basics were not Zen masters; but that first day they might just as well have been speaking in riddles. The mechanics of fly fishing aren’t incredibly complicated. If someone as ungraceful as myself can learn to decently cast fly, there’s hope for anyone interested in the sport. It’s the jargon, tactics and the eventual accumulation of the appropriate knowledge that require time, perhaps a lifetime to master, and much of that may only be learned through the act of fly fishing.

I learned the basics nearly five years ago through a class taught at the club of which I am now a member, only later realizing the value of those eight hours, which touched upon casting, gear, lines, leaders, tippets, entomology, flies, wading, venues and just about everything related to the sport. A club outing, specifically for the students, provided an opportunity to put classroom work into practice on the lower Stanislaus River. The “Stan” is one of the largest tributaries feeding into the San Joaquin River in California’s Central Valley, and offers a good, nearly year-round tailwater fishery, with topography common to moving water in the western Sierra foothills. It was on a smaller version of this type of water that I found myself trying in mid November to form an answer for the gentlemen who asked if I could tell him why Sean and I were catching fish while he and his buddy had yet to baptize their new nets.

It was in that moment that I learned something — call it “streamside enlightenment” — that could only be taught through the observation of another. I hope the bemusement I felt didn’t show on my face as it dawned on me that while I still identified myself as student of fly fishing, I’d been called upon to teach. I’ve done what I could to educate my older son in fly fishing, but that’s what a father does. The difference now was that someone, outside of family, thought that I might have wisdom to offer and that the countless trout I caught, some from spots already hit hard by other anglers, weren’t simply happy accidents.

I’ll admit that I had wondered about this gentlemen and his buddy. From my upstream position they came into view at the end of most of my drifts, and nearly every time they appeared motionless, pointing their rods at pools I knew contained fish.

My mind mulled over possible answers to the question that hung between us and, deciding that I had landed more than a fair share of fish, I secured my rod and waded toward shore and the gentleman. First, I needed to know that these two fishermen weren’t using fly rods inappropriately; after all, I have seen worm dunkers use long fly rods to extend their reach.

“Well, could you tell me what you’re using?” I asked. He held up a grasshopper imitation that would seem more at home as a model on a miniature science fiction movie set. To this was tied a Copper John wound with wire of an indescribably bright lime-green that in nature would only signal the poisonous nature of prey. Both files were at least three times too big, but these were the flies they were told to buy by the guys at a nearby big-box sporting goods store.

Silently, I selected from my fly box two size 18, beadhead Zebra Midges, flies that I tie with an extra tail of flash. The gentleman’s eyes had grown wide when I opened my fly box, then wider when I deposited the tiny flies into his waiting hand. He called to his buddy, “You should see all the flies in his box.” Then, staring at his hand, asked, “This is what you’re catching them on?”

The student frowned. At long last, the Zen Master asked, “Perhaps it would be better to begin with a simple question.”
      ZenFish“Please do.” implored the student.
      The Zen Master began again, “This is a much simpler puzzle. What is the sound of a trout laughing?”
      The student was perplexed to even think that a fish, even one enjoying itself, would laugh. Each of his answers was quickly dismissed. Finally, exasperated, the student exclaimed, “Master, I cannot solve even your simplest riddle. I am a complete idiot!”
      Then the student froze. Appreciation flashed across his face. He sat down, and said, “I am ready for my second lesson.”

I don’t remember my exact words, but my explanation touched upon the idea of trying to fool the trout, and to do so one should present what they think is food, not what we fisherman think might attract their attention. (It certainly wasn’t the time to discuss attractor flies versus imitative or realistic flies.) After much nodding of heads to acknowledge some understanding, the flies were tucked away and I asked the gentleman to join me downstream with his buddy, who all this time had stood still, rod perpendicular to the stream and just as stationary.

There’s an instinctive quality that seems to overcome fly fishermen after a few years of successful outings. One stops thinking, ‘cast, mend, watch the drift, mend again, slightly lift the rod tip at the end of the drift’ while watching for anything — any movement, however small — that triggers an almost instinctual jerk of the rod to set the hook. Sometimes referred to as muscle memory, it’s something most people don’t, or at least I didn’t, learn until everything is done properly and ends with a fish on and, hopefully, in the net.

I outlined how these two should cast and present flies, describing how a fly not moving with the current is a rather unnatural presentation, as evidenced by the lack of interest on the part of a number of trout in their vicinity. Since the huge gaudy grasshopper was, in essence, the indicator in their set up, I talked the one gentleman through the process of lobbing his flies upstream. It’s not the prettiest way to move flies, I explained, but it avoids leaving them in the overhanging tree branches common on this stream.

My on-stream lesson, abbreviated as it was, included a quick outline of setting the depth of nymphs, a reminder to watch the indicator fly for movement, and a quick account of what makes a decent hookset. It’s not that I didn’t expect either gentleman to hook a fish, but if figured they could easily enough learn how to land one after everything else came together.

I never did see either of these “students” attempt a hookset, much less land a fish. Hopefully, they will someday soon, and learn that the greatest lessons for a fly fisher are often taught without words, by the fish.


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a matter of perspective (…or there always seem to be more fish in another spot)

The reality of fishing is that more often it’s about people, the adventure that comes with it and what we’re taught than about the fishing. Sure, without the fishing you probably wouldn’t have made the trip at all, and the timing and location naturally center on when you think the fishing will be best, but regardless of the amount of planning every fishing trip is shadowed by uncertainty.

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Funky Fall Photo

Last weekend fall was in full force and winter’s influence was yet to be felt, but in the Sierra Nevada Mountains and foothills the name of the season regularly has little to do with the weather. Weather is never limited by the season there, or anywhere else, as I’m sure all five of my readers can attest.

Anyway, it was just after the first snow showers of the season that my son and I were enjoying an ‘end of trout season’ fishing trip on moving waters in the foothills in and around Twain Harte. It was the uncertainty that comes with fall weather that kept us to the west slope of the Sierras. This same weather was enough to keep a good many of the less hardy fishermen away, but that didn’t mean we’d be alone. These rivers and streams are within an easy two-hour drive of a few Central Valley cities and less than four hours away from the San Francisco area.

Regardless of a great summer, spring and early fall of fishing, there’s always a sense of urgency to land that one last fish of the season. As a father who readily allows his inner child to emerge there’s always a friendly competition between me and Sean. There’s little doubt that he can beat his old man at arm wrestling but, at least so far, he hasn’t when it comes to catching trout.

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One of the last trout of the season.

Fall on a few of the small rivers feeding into one of the reservoirs offers the thrill of hunting wild browns on the spawn. The last few years I’ve been lucky enough to land one of these browns, including a well-developed 14-inch male with a nice kype. That day, of course, the camera was not-so-handily still at the cabin.

Friday found Sean and me warming up at the small canal where nymphing generally means hooking more wild browns than stocked rainbows. The afternoon was cool and comfortable and overgrown sections of the canal could pass for a small stream elsewhere in the foothills on either side of the Sierras. During the summer, families equipped with spinning rods and bait casting rigs in every bright color imaginable usually line the banks, but this day our company was mostly limited to dogs and their owners out for a walk. We rigged up our rods, picked up a few fish as we walked upstream and called it a day when the growling of our stomachs was louder than the babbling water.

In the usual fashion, it was easier to wake up early knowing that we’d be hunting for browns, so we were out the door before the vaguest light of sunrise. The darkness gave way to the grayness that lends everything a ghostly appearance. We pulled on waders by flashlight and soon ambled down to the creek. The downside and upside to this creek is the abundance of easily fooled hatchery rainbows which we’d have to sort through as we sought Salmo trutta coming up from the lake.

The fish would be hunkered down and absolutely not looking up until midday, dictating an AP Nymph and a red chironomid pupae for me, two of my ‘confidence flies.’ Sean was similarly equipped as he headed downstream. I waded upstream to a deeper run. The rainbows didn’t disappoint, though most seemed to short strike the flies.

Eventually Sean moved downstream, confident in the stability, flexibility and healing ability that come with youth. Many of the downstream pools, pockets and runs are ignored by others, dismissed as to overrun by blackberry bushes and overhanging trees or deemed too small to harbor many, if any, fish. That meant more for us. Sean found the fish, hooking a few, though landing them seemed to be another matter.

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Sean and a nice rainbow.

I eventually joined Sean and we spent the late morning and noontime hoping to get into a brown between catching rainbow trout. A few of the fish that we didn’t land acted and looked suspiciously like brown trout; these un-netted fish appeared better proportioned, more of a torpedo than a football, like fish that, living in the wild, had to work for their food, unlike the stocked rainbow that tended to put on more gut.

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Me and a nice rainbow out of the run in the background.

The next few hours we returned upstream to pools and deep runs where the cookie cutter rainbows stacked up but offered a challenge through the fact that shortly after midday they developed a severe case of lockjaw. We met this challenge by changing over to small green midges and scuds. We did well enough, though Sean was remained a bit displeased that I was out-catching him. Despite my son’s complaint that I landed more fish than he, a gentlemen fishing just downstream offered perspective.

This older gentleman and a younger guy, wearing waders that were too clean and waving barely used rods patiently waited for hookups that never came. Chipping away at that patience, every ten to fifteen minutes, were the fish hooked and landed by Sean and I. Apparently it became too much. The older of these two gentlemen quietly waded to within a rod’s length of me. Tentatively and allowing that it was okay to refuse to answer, he asked, “Could you tell me why you guys are catching all these fish and we got nothing?” With a baffled look that turned into a grin, I think Sean learned that even without keeping pace with dad, he does quite well.

As for how I answered the gentleman from downstream, that’s something for next week.

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thinking ahead, and behind

As the days between fishing trips grow more numerous, my thoughts wander. Thoughts coalesce into an inexact catalog of flies that need to be tied and new patterns to be attempted, the fuzzy details of the rod to be built during midwinter, and a rough outline of next year’s fishing trips, mostly of the multi-day variety to out-of-the-way or unfamiliar water.

Then there are the memories. Recent thoughts floating to the surface center on How It All Began.

Flying fishing came later in my life. Prior to that, my limited exposure to the sport was the occasional, distant fly fisher who seemed less fisherman and more of an aerial artist using fly line as his brush. Having more than once employed the fly-and-bubble technique with my spinning rod, I knew that this technique mysteriously allowed the casting of impossibly small flies.

Fly fishing snuck up on me. It was a conspiracy of the fishing gods to bring together opportunity and motive.

My son and I had made an impromptu late August trip to a small stream in the Eastern Sierras. Still an hour or so away from our destination, as can happen in the high mountains, a torrential rainstorm obscured the view of Mono Lake. The spirit of youth overcame the concern of age, and we found ourselves seeking a campsite at least moderately protected by aspens.

I was left to lash a tarp between the trees and the minivan while Christopher bounded though the rain towards the somewhat swollen creek. He’d later tell of how folks he met along the way dismissed his chances of finding any willing fish.

He proved them wrong. Casting a now unknown fly and allowing it to drift below overhanging bushes, he found his first trout with his new fly rod. It was a decent brown, a trout that neither of us had the pleasure of meeting face to face. He returned with a contagious joy. The campsite didn’t seem so damp after all.

Again, as can happen in the Sierras, the next day dawned bright and cloudless. The storm had passed, leaving behind a freshness. Vivid green aspen leaves sparkled with water droplets. From the damp ground wafted a pleasant earthiness. The creek ran clear.

A couple of miles along a graded dirt road, among yet more aspens quaking in a light breeze, is a bend in this stream; upstream, where it emerges from tangled braids of nearly impenetrable brambles. It’s one of those typical Sierra streams, small enough to wade across in three or four strides without getting your knees wet, peppered with small, rounded granite rocks and flowing with gin-clear water under dappled sunlight filtering through pines and aspens. This day, trout were stacked up in riffles near the opposite bank.

Small, lightweight Panther Martin spinners got their attention. In a relatively short period I had landed more than my share by tossing a spinner on the opposite bank, gently pulling it into the water, and letting it drift almost haphazardly downstream to the pod of rainbows. Despite using an ultra-light, 5’6” Fenwick rod the thrill of fooling these trout abated after an hour and half of non-stop catching.

The Compleat Angler or the Contemplative Man's Recreation

The Compleat Angler or the Contemplative Man's Recreation

It was time for something a bit more challenging. I asked and borrowed my son’s L.L. Bean fly rod with God-knows-what fly attached to a leader that was probably too short. Though it was more akin to lifting and dropping a wet noodle than a real cast, I got the fly onto the water and floating downstream into promising riffles. I cast again. And again.

A quick splash was the first indication of a decent cast. A few more casts. The fly drifted further into the riffles and nearly out of sight. Another splash and I hooked my first trout on a fly rod. It wasn’t big, maybe six inches. It was one of the most beautiful brown trout — and the first — I have held in my hand.

Thinking back, it wasn’t so much the landing of the fish that first sparked my interest in The Contemplative Man’s Recreation. (For the antithesis of meditative fishing, see Unaccomplished Angler’s “Sturgeon on a dry fly.”) Despite the numbers and statistics thrown around by yours truly, it was the contest between me and the fish — the act of attempting to fool a fish with what it thought might be real food — that hooked me.

As many trout as I’ve been lucky enough to land, each time I’m on the water it becomes clearer that I won’t live long enough to truly understand these fish. They remind me of this with their unpredictable reactions to my best presentations, and baffle me with their willingness to take a poorly presented fly. In that lies the challenge that lures me back.