THE SPORT OF FLY FISHING
The sport of fly-fishing can do little to gain one's physique. I've yet to see one gain muscle from throwing a fly at the end of a fly rod. If he or she did, they were doing it wrong. No... This is the sport for me. I'm good for walking lazily through foggy mornings to rambling rivers and standing in the water while the fog lifts and mists fall. Today it took thirty minutes to reach the Brazos from where I parked my truck (fifteen minutes away), but while I stood and put on my fly, I listened to the small birds rustling in the brush fussing at me for invading their territory. A short time later, a Tufted Titmouse gave me a real talking to, and I smiled at the wonder of it all.
Then I put the fly in motion, laid it on the water, and watched for the subtle movement of line to indicate a Piscatorial interruption. If the truth were known, it really wouldn't matter to me if there were an interruption or not. I'm easy. It would certainly be more fun if I was catching fish, and if I were to put a few on the table my wife would be happier. But this is not actually necessary to entertain me. The truth is, I'm entertained by being here.
Okay, this dry fly hasn't worked for twenty minutes so it was time to try another. Some House Sparrows were taking a dislike to my invasion, as I took my time carefully tying on another fly... a little smaller one this time. This one I could use the help of an electron microscope to tie on, a black zebra midge, 'bout size 24 with a hopper eighteen inches above it as an indicator.
I had moved about one eighth of a mile upstream since I began; now I lay out this new fly concoction and I was almost immediately interrupted by a small bream. Ha-ha! He's a pretty specimen about nine inches long. Nice, fun... caught and released. I'm into the bream for thirty minutes, catching them as fast as I can cast. I caught fish from four to nine inches... red-ear, yellow bellied sunfish, black-ear perch a few young Black Bass, but most of them what most fishermen call bream. I decided to move more upstream to try and catch a few Sand Bass.
I re-rigged with a Clouser and moved just below a riffle. The river was about two and one-half feet deep in this area give or take six-inches, and rocky, so I was thinking that there might be some Smallies nestling below. There was a pair of Blue Jays squawking above me in a Pecan tree. Crows answered, and soon the Jays were gone, but the Crows hung around cawing for awhile. I began feeling out the river starting on the near side hoping not to spook fish that were further away. I worked the entire width of the river, and when I was about ready to give up, I cast to a log on the far side and got a hit, but this wasn't a Smallie, this was a Largemouth, and what a strike! He hit my three weight line like it was the only thing he'd eaten in a month.
The fight was on. This Bass took to the air almost immediately trying to throw the hook, but I was able to keep light pressure without breaking the line. My two pound tippet wasn't going to take much, and if he got around a rock he would easily break off. I let the fish run with the drag on the reel. He ran up river into the riffles and I knew he was going to break off; there were too many rocks, but suddenly he took an unexpected turn back downstream. He was coming right toward me. I took up line as fast as I could, then I took my net and got it ready as he was going to pass close by, but he saw me and swam away from the net. He looked over four pounds. Downstream he went, again taking out line, this time through the pressure of my fingers instead of reel drag.
Then I saw what was about to happen and it was too late. The loose, floating line was wrapped around a rock in the river and slack was pulling out of the line too quick for me to break up the tangle... the line tightened, the Bass hit the end, jumped into the air and shook free from the lure! Dadburn it. Shucks. He got away. But what an adrenaline pump! I let out a shrill whistle and laughed. I don't know why, but I always laugh at the end of a fish fight whether I catch the fish or not. It's so much fun.
This "would've" been the biggest river Largemouth I had ever landed. Five hours into my fishing trip and all was well. The mist had lifted but the skies were overcast. I decided it was time to have a sandwich and a sip or two of water. I took out my wading staff and moved over to a large rock in the middle of the river and had a seat. Then I took out a sandwich from my waist pack and began to eat. Although I'm alone on this trip, there have been people notified who know where I am, and where to look in case I don't show up in a timely manner later on tonight. Safety is key to any trip whether you are mountain climbing, motorcycling, or wade fishing. The self inflating Personal Flotation Device is a necessity for safety. In my younger days, I wouldn't have had the self inflating attachment, but today I'm smart enough to know that I don't have the wind I once did.
With lunch finished, the remainder of the day is fished without much action. The cool weather of fall is descending on Texas and the leaves have begun changing colors. The high today was sixty seven degrees, which was wonderful for October, normally in the eighties. This ten-hour day of fishing would have been just as enjoyable if nothing had been caught. There's a Cardinal over there with his mate...