I start out with the best of intentions. I tie my fly carefully to the end of my line, tugging at it to see that it’s secure. I scan the water for the most promising ripples and check behind me for back-casting obstacles. The last few times out, though, have brought nothing but a line snagged on river rocks, on willows near the bank, and on dead logs in the water. In the past two days, specifically, I lost a nymph to rocks on the Nooksack river near our house and an elk hair caddis on the North Fork of the Nooksack nearer to Mt. Baker. Two days, two flies, with hardly a fish in sight. Although I am loath to believe that money spent improves one's sporting skills, it appears that I need some waders. Better casting skills would help, to be sure, as would a raft, as Kendall is quick to point out. It stands to reason that to catch fish, one must go where the fish are. And where the fish are, it would seem, is always just beyond my reach.
And so, the past few trips I’ve fished a little (more casting practice, after all) and observed a lot. I’ve seen the seemingly infinite variations of green on display in Washington, from the ever-present lime-colored moss to the green-black of the interior forest, and the glacial-turquoise hue that stays with the Nooksack until it melds with the greenish-brown color of rivers that pass through farmland. I’ve watched several caddis hatches, and seen the struggling wings of insects produce on the water’s surface exactly the sorts of movements that fly fishers try to imitate. I’ve marveled at the beauty of a proper cast, and I remain convinced that, to paraphrase Julia Child, casting requires both technique and the courage of one’s convictions. I also watched as that same perfect cast was frustrated by a leery fish. I’ve been mesmerized by the current patterns produced by the interaction of surface and depth, and have meditated on Norman Maclean’s descriptions of river geometry. I’ve also been amazed by the apparent ability of Washingtonians to wet-wade in very cold water late in September; Kansans, despite their general disdain for excessive air conditioning and their predilection for watching tornadoes from their porches, evidently do not share this trait.
I do the things I know how to do. I practice, I ask questions, I practice some more. Almost inevitably, though, I stumble up against some aspect of the fly fishing world that outstrips my modest skills. And so, there, where certainty and precision elude me, I sit and watch.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
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