This story was from several years ago when I first “got serious” about fly fishing.

Trout fishermen amuse me.  Not because of anything they do while angling, but rather the odd affliction that many suffer: the compulsion to write.  An entire sub-genus of fishing literature revolving around trout and the flyrod has evolved.

Some of these essays are virtually music composed of words, but much of the ink spilled by trout fisherman transcends such ideals and hovers more around the “purple-prose” category.  It can be sometimes downright dull to read the stream of consciousness inflicted upon paper by these writers who are totally focused on an enjoyable but ultimately frivolous use of his or her time.

This was my opinion, at least until the last few weeks.   A sea-change in outlook has been the result of some very enjoyable moments spent wandering along my favorite creek, throwing around little bits of feathers on line that appears to be borrowed from the window shades.  I have begun that odd transformation into a real fly fisherman.

Fly rods have been part of my repertoire for several decades, but though the skills were present, I never really considered myself a true fly angler.   Once or thrice a year I would pull my mismatched outfit out of the garage, tie on some fly from the local discount store then pester the bluegills and yearling bass at the local pond.  I even managed to catch a few.

Things changed on last Christmas morning.  As part of a speculative plan to add some spice to life, I asked for a decent fly rod from Mr. Kringle.  To my mild surprise, the outfit did indeed arrive and Christmas afternoon found me in the front yard practice casting and learning the difference between a balanced outfit versus the frightening collection of junk I had previously used.  It was like parking a worn out delivery truck and then climbing into a turbocharged Porsche.  Well, at least a decent General Motors product.

We fast-forward to the first weeks of June when the water finally receded enough to mount an expedition on the creek.  This would typically mean a small selection of hardware stowed in a fanny pack, supporting an ultralight-spinning outfit.  Instead, the fanny pack was virtually empty save one fly box, a few spare tippets, a pair of hemostats, a small pocketknife and a decent cigar.

Though I had caught smallmouth bass on surface poppers, I was virtually a rookie when using nymphs such as the Woolly Bugger.  Fortunately, after working out the rust and kinks from my technique, the evening actually began to move smoothly.  To a bystander, it might have even appeared that I knew what I was doing.

This, of course, was a lie but any falsehood worth living is a good lie indeed.  So I continued.  Just about the moment when baseless confidence ceases and is replaced by utter despair, it happened.  A silly and hungry little smallmouth inhaled the fly and began putting on an aerial show that would shame the Blue Angels.

With that small fish, a journey began.   Had I caught the bronzeback on a spinning rod, I would have unhooked and returned it to the water with less than a moments thought.  This fish, however, was played carefully and landed gently while taking time to admire the fly stuck in its lower jaw just like the cover shot on an outdoor magazine.  After the fish was gone and replaced by the sound of gentle creek music, I still felt a glow that I hadn’t experienced for years.

I still haven’t caught a great number of smallmouth on the fly rod, but each fish is special and appreciated in a way that is hard to explain.  The spinning rod remains fun and a great way to produce big bass but each fish brought to hand via the far more challenging fly rod is a special trophy, even though it might be shorter than the length of the cork rod grips.

For some reason, this new found enthusiasm has manifested itself into other things.  Now the noise of water rushing down the riffles is more relaxing, the birds songs more distinct and every little seam and ripple is examined for meaning and fish.  Even the buzzing insects are taken into account instead of being waved away.   A few evenings ago, my attention was held for several minutes by a pale white mayfly that landed on my flyrod as the last sliver of orange sun evaporated below the horizon.

Though I can still smirk at those trout fishing diaries that prattle on metaphysics and are about as interesting as serious contemplation of one’s navel, at least I now understand.  And if you can gain understanding through a nine-foot stick of graphite and plastic resin, then perhaps there is something mystical contained in the act of casting a fly.

But I’ll try not to write about it too much.

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