Sparse_Grey_Hack
Member
- Joined
- Aug 18, 2008
- Messages
- 72
Well, here I sit mid-winter, looking back at my grand re-entry into fly fishing this past July. I was never one for taking vacation days at work until this year. I took many through July, August, and September. I spooked and panicked uncountable trout, suckers, and chubs. I have caught decent-sized trout on flies ranging from over 4 inches long to size 24 pupa. (I have not caught a trout on a wooly bugger yet, though). I came to this site, realizing I was pretty much a fly-fishing hack and nome-de-plumed myself accordingly.
When I first re-started this madness, I immediately realized how out of touch I am with fly fishing for trout. Not only did I start in the midst of the hottest weather of the year, it also happened to be a year of low, low water. Had I not had some 20 years of experience under my belt, I may have given up. But I knew there was a level of confidence out there that I had achieved before. I also knew that all I had to do was put in time astream and it would slowly return. So I put in the time.
Many hot, sweaty days sloshing through low, clear water were spent wondering if the technology had passed me by. Questions buzzed through those days like bees tuning in on me from a brutal hive. Were my 30 year old flies still effective? Were my 30 year old techniques? Was I even fit enough to spend 4 plus hours wading and stumbling over streambeds? Were I to run into a legitimate hatch, were my eyes and hands still good enough to effectively respond to it?
I plunged on, with that hope that it will soon come together. It did, sometime in late September. I can't recall the exact moment. But it was after one fairly successfull trip involving hauling out several decent trout from low, crystal clear water that I realized I could again catch trout with regularity. That's some of what it's about, isn't it? If we didn't carry that hope, wrought from the iron of fishless days and way too occasional trout, or those special days when things just worked and we caught too many trout to count, to the stream, then we're only going for the scenery and sounds. And if I didn't negatively profit from an occassional run-on sentence like the previous one, I may actually falsely consider myself a writer.
I also realized it was a calling. I had spent many, many years not fishing. Those years found me craning my neck at each and every stream I drove over. My eyes often paused on such books as Fishless Days, Angling Nights or Fishing the Flymph while I gazed through my books on Gettysburg, astronomy, or quantum mechanics that stuffed shelves about my house. An odd mix, indeed. And when I came across others talking fishing, I always entered in with wild stories from decades ago.
I realized early on that I must be careful. I need this. It has taken me from the brink of sanity to a steady dream where all things come together. I know why I stopped somewhere in the early eighties. I must avoid that and find a balance where I can go out there and hassle the be-jupiter out of wild critters who, apparently, only want to just get by. Much like me.
What killed it for me back then? You could call it guilt. I was very good. I was at the point where, if i saw a trout, I could catch it. And even if I didn't see them, I could catch them. I had it down. I knew what to do, where, and when. I had my streams and I had my techniques.
The final cast was made at a joyously feeding trout (anthropomorphically speaking) in a clear riffle in a heavily fished freestone stream. I had a streamer on and decided to throw it rather than change to an insect fly. He immediately chased and hit it. I got him in quickly but there was blood. I had hurt him. The fly was big and he took it with all due intent. I realeased him and he went and sulked in a calm spot, no longer joyous--no longer feeding. I began to feel awful about it. There was a lot going on in my life at the time and this one event became too much to bear. Who was I to hassle these creatures for my enjoyment? I put my rod down that day and didn't pick it back up for almost 30 years. You see, I generally don't consider myself above the animals and critters of this world. I don't consider them there for me. We're both just here and that's as far as I can take it.
It didn't matter that, were I not putting money into the system, he probably wouldn't have even been there. It didn't matter that he was picking on something much smaller and more vulnerable than he, just like I was. The spiritual connection I had developed by fly fishing all those years immediately evaporated. My state of mind back then was such that if I could not come here and enjoy them without interfering, I would not enjoy them at all.
I bear this small cross every time I go out now. I have unintentionally hurt a few trout this year (with some intent after all). But since my return, I realize how much I need this. I see how the craziness in my life has significantly subsided since I've returned. I've seen my health, both mental and physical, improve dramatically. My BP is now 106 over 70 where, merely a year ago, it was pegging the meter at 180 over 104. And, after many dark years, I again have something I look forward to. And if I ever do catch that mermaid, I hope I don't hurt her too badly.
I would like to thank all here who have helped me make my return trip. You have all added something to my mental or physical trout-fishing repertoire. You have captured my attention with your stories and pictures. You have helped me find my way back to the magic of it all. You have given me hope that it still works as it did back then. You have caused me to laugh at the ridiculous and long for the spectacular. You have directly and unselfishly pointed me to streams and techniques that worked. But. most of all, you have listened to my seemingly endless ramblings (like this one). For that, I thank you. I'm an old-school message board groveller and I plan to be around a long time so get used to it.
Meanwhile, it's in the twenties here and I've seriously thought of heading out today. But I won't. I know the water is high and angry and I don't yet have the seriously cold weather fishing down pat yet as far as keeping hypothermia at bay is concerned. I never fished in the winter back then. I will miss it, come spring when the crowds and the fresh stockers return. It is now my core of fly fishing where gin-clear, low water, miniscule flies, and streams bereft of humans will fade into my memory. The gin-clear, low water already has. It's time to re-adjust. Time to grow some more. Time to discover even deeper mysteries
When I first re-started this madness, I immediately realized how out of touch I am with fly fishing for trout. Not only did I start in the midst of the hottest weather of the year, it also happened to be a year of low, low water. Had I not had some 20 years of experience under my belt, I may have given up. But I knew there was a level of confidence out there that I had achieved before. I also knew that all I had to do was put in time astream and it would slowly return. So I put in the time.
Many hot, sweaty days sloshing through low, clear water were spent wondering if the technology had passed me by. Questions buzzed through those days like bees tuning in on me from a brutal hive. Were my 30 year old flies still effective? Were my 30 year old techniques? Was I even fit enough to spend 4 plus hours wading and stumbling over streambeds? Were I to run into a legitimate hatch, were my eyes and hands still good enough to effectively respond to it?
I plunged on, with that hope that it will soon come together. It did, sometime in late September. I can't recall the exact moment. But it was after one fairly successfull trip involving hauling out several decent trout from low, crystal clear water that I realized I could again catch trout with regularity. That's some of what it's about, isn't it? If we didn't carry that hope, wrought from the iron of fishless days and way too occasional trout, or those special days when things just worked and we caught too many trout to count, to the stream, then we're only going for the scenery and sounds. And if I didn't negatively profit from an occassional run-on sentence like the previous one, I may actually falsely consider myself a writer.
I also realized it was a calling. I had spent many, many years not fishing. Those years found me craning my neck at each and every stream I drove over. My eyes often paused on such books as Fishless Days, Angling Nights or Fishing the Flymph while I gazed through my books on Gettysburg, astronomy, or quantum mechanics that stuffed shelves about my house. An odd mix, indeed. And when I came across others talking fishing, I always entered in with wild stories from decades ago.
I realized early on that I must be careful. I need this. It has taken me from the brink of sanity to a steady dream where all things come together. I know why I stopped somewhere in the early eighties. I must avoid that and find a balance where I can go out there and hassle the be-jupiter out of wild critters who, apparently, only want to just get by. Much like me.
What killed it for me back then? You could call it guilt. I was very good. I was at the point where, if i saw a trout, I could catch it. And even if I didn't see them, I could catch them. I had it down. I knew what to do, where, and when. I had my streams and I had my techniques.
The final cast was made at a joyously feeding trout (anthropomorphically speaking) in a clear riffle in a heavily fished freestone stream. I had a streamer on and decided to throw it rather than change to an insect fly. He immediately chased and hit it. I got him in quickly but there was blood. I had hurt him. The fly was big and he took it with all due intent. I realeased him and he went and sulked in a calm spot, no longer joyous--no longer feeding. I began to feel awful about it. There was a lot going on in my life at the time and this one event became too much to bear. Who was I to hassle these creatures for my enjoyment? I put my rod down that day and didn't pick it back up for almost 30 years. You see, I generally don't consider myself above the animals and critters of this world. I don't consider them there for me. We're both just here and that's as far as I can take it.
It didn't matter that, were I not putting money into the system, he probably wouldn't have even been there. It didn't matter that he was picking on something much smaller and more vulnerable than he, just like I was. The spiritual connection I had developed by fly fishing all those years immediately evaporated. My state of mind back then was such that if I could not come here and enjoy them without interfering, I would not enjoy them at all.
I bear this small cross every time I go out now. I have unintentionally hurt a few trout this year (with some intent after all). But since my return, I realize how much I need this. I see how the craziness in my life has significantly subsided since I've returned. I've seen my health, both mental and physical, improve dramatically. My BP is now 106 over 70 where, merely a year ago, it was pegging the meter at 180 over 104. And, after many dark years, I again have something I look forward to. And if I ever do catch that mermaid, I hope I don't hurt her too badly.
I would like to thank all here who have helped me make my return trip. You have all added something to my mental or physical trout-fishing repertoire. You have captured my attention with your stories and pictures. You have helped me find my way back to the magic of it all. You have given me hope that it still works as it did back then. You have caused me to laugh at the ridiculous and long for the spectacular. You have directly and unselfishly pointed me to streams and techniques that worked. But. most of all, you have listened to my seemingly endless ramblings (like this one). For that, I thank you. I'm an old-school message board groveller and I plan to be around a long time so get used to it.
Meanwhile, it's in the twenties here and I've seriously thought of heading out today. But I won't. I know the water is high and angry and I don't yet have the seriously cold weather fishing down pat yet as far as keeping hypothermia at bay is concerned. I never fished in the winter back then. I will miss it, come spring when the crowds and the fresh stockers return. It is now my core of fly fishing where gin-clear, low water, miniscule flies, and streams bereft of humans will fade into my memory. The gin-clear, low water already has. It's time to re-adjust. Time to grow some more. Time to discover even deeper mysteries
