I'm a fly fisherman. You've seen me in a long canoe fishing the Restigouche for Atlantic salmon. Or in a flat-bottomed skiff poled along the flats of Florida stalking bonefish. We've stood side by side in sleet on opening day on the Beaverkill--and in snow at the tag end of things on the Madison. We've argued steelhead flies on the Babine, brown trout methods on the Pere Marquette.
You've seen me popping for bass in Georgia and heard me bragging about wet-fly bream in Tennessee. And when they're running--be it shad or stripers--I'll do my best to be there. Unless I'm out for tarpon, or blues--or brookies.
I love those long, slender sticks and all the stuff that goes with them--waders and wet feet not excepted.
I've got four of everything except flies, where I do a little better than that. And reels and rods and matching lines, just in case. My vest weighs 10 pounds, and I never have all the stuff along that I need. I'm an authority on high water, low water, bad tides, and wind knots.
I'm never convinced I've got on the right fly--unless there's a fish attached--which is seldom. I know everything there is to know about landing fish--except when I get too excited to remember--which is always.
I can't double-haul, tie more than two knots, or recognize much more than a mayfly.
But I'm a fly fisherman. I like the quiet company of pelicans, ospreys, wood ducks, and squirrels. I like the too-rare satisfaction of a perfect cast, the singsong of a running reel, and the etching of a fish against the sky. I like catching the same fish the second or third time more than catching him first. I like to hold him in my hand--then let him go.
But I don't catch much, to be honest--and I honestly don't care. I can be snagged, skunked, sunburned, or partially submerged--and still smile. If you don't think I'm crazy--you're a fly fisherman too.
This story originally appeared in Hill Country by Gene Hill. Copyright 1974-78 Gene A. Hill. All rights reserved.
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