Early May
By Neil M. Travis, Montana
It was early May. The day was warm, yes even bordering
on hot, and I was doing what man was intended to do on
a warm day in early May. I was fly fishing for trout.
It does not matter where I was fishing...the where is
unimportant...the fact that I was fishing is the important
part.
It had been a wonderful day. An exceptional day. It had
been a fishless day. Not that a fishless day is exceptional
or wonderful, for me fishless days are not the exception,
more often they are the rule. It was a wonderful day and
an exceptional day because I was fishing. Not just fishing,
but privileged to be fishing. Privileged to have the time
and the expendable income to enjoy this most wonderful
sport. Privileged to live in a land where trout streams
are available to the common man, where wild trout still
live and men like me are permitted to pursue them.
I have fished for trout, in one form or another, for over
45 years. From casting hooks baited with worms back under
the banks of small creeks near my home in upstate New York,
to casting size #28 Tricos to brown trout on Michigan's Au
Sable, I have pursued trout from coast to coast. Over those
years there have been some memorable trout that have fallen
victim to my skills. The slab sided rainbow that took my
stone fly nymph as it drifted through a small side channel
on the Yellowstone River one late March afternoon. The brown
trout that rose to my fly the last time I fished Michigan's
Au Sable River before I moved away to Montana. The magnificent
cutthroat that materialized out of the depths of a crystal
clear pool and sucked in my drifting dry fly. However, what
has remained with me over the years is not the fish that I
have caught, but the enjoyment I have received in the pursuit.
Fly fishing for trout has enriched my life.
Some would say that it is foolish to romanticize the sport
of fly fishing, that fly fishing is just a blood sport that
modern man has sanitized. Some would say that there is nothing
noble about fly fishing, nothing ennobling about catching fish
with feathers instead of bait. Perhaps they are right, but I
fear that in our attempt to strip the sport of its romanticized
roots we have lost something in the translation.
Last spring I was fishing one of the famous trout rivers
here in Montana, and during the course of the day I was
struck by one singular fact: there were lots of people
fishing, but no one seemed to be having fun. It was all
very serious and mechanical. I heard no laughter, no
joking or convivial conversation, just the steady,
measured, metronome-like strokes as each angler plied
his/her flies upon the water. Later, at dinner, the
conversation focused on the number and size of the
trout that had been secured by such business-like
angling. I ate in silence, not willing to expose my
own lack of "angling success" to such a group. After
dinner I strolled outside, as much to escape the
conversation as to catch a breath of fresh air. As I
listened to the owls talking in the cotton-woods down
by the river, I marveled at the sky filled with stars.
In the darkness the wind wafted the fresh smell of
spring to my waiting nostrils, and I quietly gave
thanks that I was privileged to be present to see it happen.
~ Neil M. Travis, Montana
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