A Good Day Fishing is Better

A GOOD DAY FISHING IS BETTER…

I held off as long as I could. Two straight weeks of April rain made it easier
than usual. Then the inevitable occurred: the sun came out, the switch, thrown,
sending the jolt through every dormant trout fisherman, electrifying him to action!
I left work early, of course, and sped home. There are only two events that
would make me risk my life at speed that would liquefy bone if impact occurred: a
baseball game and fishing! Everything else could wait.
I pulled into my driveway and was in my house before the car door closed.
Running into my garage to gather my equipment, I did a mental checklist.
Waders, check. Pole, check. Vest, check. My temples were sending me a pounding Morse
Code that my heart was, to say the least: excited! I paused, took a deep breath, and told
myself : hurry up and calm down.
With adrenalin already running through my body, I knew it would be better to suit up
at my house rather than the stream. For those of you that know the difficulty in
donning waders when you see fish rising, you understand my choice here. For those of
you that don’t, I don’t trust you. You don’t fish and you probably don’t drink .We have
nothing in common. Move along.
Pulling on waders can make the most proper, civilized man, look like an imbecile.
First you have it under control. You line up the feet and legs, you open the entrance way
wide and you put your first leg in. Then you do the: “ I just been bit in the butt by a
Jack Rabbit, bunny hop for five or six one foot jumps. I swear I hear.. “And you do the


Hokey poky and you turn it all around, that’s what it’s all about.” Pure, pro, fool!

The drive to the stream took forever. Ten minutes is a long time if you’re either waiting
for an ambulance or trying to get to your fishing hole. Forever came. I was there.
I donned my vest, a collection of assorted flies, oils, crimps, scissors, and other
paraphernalia. I’d seen these items in a book and decided that even if I didn’t know how
to use them, it looked better than an empty vest. Sitting my fly fishing hat on my head,
(saw it in a movie), I was ready to go!
I assembled my fly rod, did a scan of the insects that might be hatching, and chose my
fly, making my decision based on absolutely nothing. I began to tie the fly on.
If you have never attempted to tie a number 26 fly on to 8x fly line tippet, you don’t
know what pure fun is. It is trying to thread line you cannot feel, through a hole you
cannot see, on a fly you cannot hold. It is impossible! Making matters worse are the
wind, your shaking hand, and the eyes of any old fool who would take this hobby up in
the first place.

My first attempt: failed. My second: failed. Patience, patience. My third attempt: failed.
Deep breath, relax. My fourth attempt: hook through thumb. “ You son of a …..”
Fifth attempt failed: pole flung to the ground, more four letter
hard constants as I storm around the truck, arms waving, curses flying. My sixth attempt:
failed. The sun was beginning to set. I felt pressure. Pressure to perform under pressure.
Seventh attempt: hook through thumb, pole flung to the ground, “ you son of a….”




Calm down relax. You can do it. You CAN do this. Blood was dripping from my thumb
down my wrist. Eighth attempt: Yes! I did it! I did it! Got the line through the hook eye! I
did it! I ‘m no choke artist! I did it! Life would be different now, you’ll see. I’ll come
through in clutch situations. My family will be proud! I’m a winner you hear me, a
winner!
It took another ten minutes to tie the stinking knot.
By the time I wadded into the water the sun was all but gone.
Fly-casting is an art. I am no artist. The object is to have the fly
land gently on the surface of the water with nary a ripple, the way its live counterpart
would. My mosquito imitation hit the water like a cannonballing Fatty Arbuckle. An
Alligator might have been tempted with my offering but the trout were significantly less
than impressed, I’m sure.
Well not to worry. It was my first cast in the new season. I needed to warm up, get my
stroke back. I reeled my line in and tried again. I began to wave my rod as I had been
taught. Ten o’clock, two o’clock. Ten o’clock, two o’clock. That’s it. Feed the line out on
the forward stroke. Easy boy, easy. That’s right. You got it. Now! Let it fly!
My line wrapped around my rod with lightning speed. It curled tight, till it got to my fly.
My fly snapped off, arcing toward the stream. It landed beautifully, with nary a ripple,
then slowly floated downstream. I watched it till it was out of sight, admiring its
quiet, graceful passage. Then I went berserk.


The sun was gone. I stormed from the water, making huge splashes as I went. I threw



my rod against my truck. It bounced, and then slid down to the ground into the sand. Who
cares! I tore my vest off and hurled it overhand into the truck. Gear flew
everywhere. Off came the waders: flung. I was out of control. I picked up my rod and
bounced it off the truck again for good measure. It recoiled back to me, like a bad drunk
kissing a good right hand. It too, got flung into the truck. I jumped in.
I started the truck up cursing the mothers of the mothers of all who had anything to do
with fly-fishing.
A car pulled up. Conservation. Great! Just great! He rolled his window down. “How’s
it going?” he asked. I feigned calm.
“ Nothing doing tonight.” I smiled. “ Not even a hit.”
He got out of his car, all smiles. “ What are using?” he asked, looking into my truck.
“ A little fly fishing, actually very little,” I answered.
“ Yeah, well it’s still early in the season, right? Have a good night.” He turned to
walk back to his car.
“ Yeah thanks, you too.” I put the truck in drive. He was half way in his car when he
stopped. Over the top of his hood he yelled the words I feared. “ Hey buddy you got a
freshwater license?”
We chatted cordially as he wrote me the fine. As we talked, I debated
pulling his gun from its holster and making a run for it. I shudder to think what
I would be without my family to ground me.
I waited till he left. Then the rage boiled over. I slammed the car into drive and smashed



my foot down on the pedal. Rocks and sand flew with the curses from my now filthy
mouth. I sped down the dirt road feeling sorry for any animal that might cross my path
now, but wildlife has a way of protecting itself. Nature supplies an internal radar that
sends it’s: “Warning, Warning, moron approaching, moron approaching.”
Getting to the road, I rolled through the stop sign and hit the pedal again. Hard.
The flashing light in my rear view mirror finishes the trip…

……………………………………………………

That was a week ago. I’m almost done loading my fly gear into the truck.
I’ve been working a bit to hard lately and need a bit of R and R.
Remember: “ Fly fishing is an art.”
All artists suffer.