THE GIFT (part 1)
Wow, a gift certificate to the famous fly-fishing school – The Far and Fine Fly-Fishing Academy. Although Ralph had never actual tried fly-fishing he had often envied those long graceful casts that he had seen fly caster make on outdoor TV shows. His own fishing experiences consisted of a few outings on a local lake where he caught panfish with worms. Now he could become a fly-fisher, he would make long graceful casts, frequent beautiful places and catch fish with names like Rainbow, and Cutthroat – not crappies.
A few weeks later Ralph arrived at the Academy to begin his initiation into the world of fly-fishing. Within a few days Ralph was punching out casts with tight loops. His casting stroke was flawless, and his back cast was high; in short, Ralph was on his way to becoming a fly casting machine.
Between session at the casting ponds Ralph spent time learning about leaders, knots, different types of flies, and basic entomology. He tied barrel knots, clinch knots, perfection loops, and double overhand surgeon knots. He learned about fly lines, fly rod and reels. At the end of his stay at Far and Fine he emerged, certificate in hand. Now he was a fly-fisherman.
A trip to his local fly shop divested Ralph of a significant percentage of his bank account. There was so much to buy, and so many choices. Later that evening Ralph sorted through his acquisitions; a small mountain of stuff from rods and reels to a fully stocked fly vest. There were waders, a rain jacket, a hat, and a collection of gadgets that hung from something that looked like a necklace.
A couple weeks later Ralph stepped off the plane somewhere in the middle of Montana. As he stood in the lobby of the terminal with his mound of fly-fishing paraphernalia piled around his feet, a tall lean stranger wearing a well-worn cowboy hat and faded jeans ambled through the doors and walked up to Ralph.
“Howdy,” he said. “You must be Ralph. I’m Bob. Let’s get your gear loaded.”
Without another word he turned and headed for the door with Ralph struggling along behind trying to haul all his gear behind his quickly disappearing transportation. Outside Bob stood beside a dusty pick-up truck.
“You can toss your gear in the back here,” he said.
Ralph placed his gear in the bed of the truck and climbed into the cab.
“First trip to Montana,” Bob asked?
“Yes,” Ralph replied.
“Well, you might as well settle back and enjoy the scenery. It will take us about an hour to get out to the place, but we should get there in time for some fishing before it gets dark.”
Bob fired up the pick-up and they were off. The radio station cranked out a steady stream of country and western music as the Montana landscape slipped passed the windows of the speeding truck. Mountains rose up from the valley floor, green fields swept away toward the horizon, white-faced cows fed contentedly on lush greenery, and overhead was the unbroken sweep of sky. Ralph had died and gone to heaven!
Pulling off the blacktopped road the pick-up bounced down a dirt lane that quickly dropped down toward a shimmering river. In a grove of trees perched on the bank of the river were several small cabins, a barn and a larger log building. Several drift boats were parked next to the barn, and a thin wisp of smoke wafted from the chimney of the large log building. The pick-up bounced to a stop in front of one of the small cabins.
“Cabin 5 is yours.” Dinners served at 8 o’clock in the main house.” Bob motioned toward the large log building. “They ring the bell before we eat.” Glancing at his watch he said, “You’ve got a couple hours before dinner if you wish to wet a line.”
Bob ambled off in the general direction of the big log house leaving Ralph to unload his gear and figure out what to do next. The cabin was small but neat and clean. Ralph stowed his gear and wandered down to the stream. Wow, a famous Montana river was flowing right in front of him – the famous Yellowstone River, and it was really big.
Ralph returned to his cabin and put on his gear. Wow, he was actually going to fish a world famous stream, but once back at the river he suddenly realized that he did not have the slightest idea what fly to use.
“Let me see,” he thought “I guess I should find some insects to see what the fish might be feeding on.”
Ralph stared at the water, he looked in the air – nothing. Ralph opened his fly box and stared at the neat rows of flies. What to do? Ralph picked one that looked good to him and tied it on his tippet.
“Now what?” he thought. Ralph did not have a clue where to fish. Oh well, he would just start casting and trust to luck.
Ralph stripped line from his reel and lofted his back cast into the limbs of a cottonwood tree behind him. Ralph had never cast where there were trees behind him. He tugged and pulled and the leader snapped leaving his $3.00 fly and a good section of his leader dangling from a limb that was well out of reach.
Several minutes later Ralph had replaced his leader and tied on a new fly. This time he checked behind before he began to cast. The cast shot forward straight and true, it dropped to the water and immediately was ripped downstream by the current. Ralph ripped the fly off the water and the line shot upward into the limbs of the tree. This time Ralph was able to get his fly back but his frustration level was beginning to climb. Each time he made a cast the fly was quickly grabbed by the current that hurled it downstream much too fast for anything to possibly catch it. Ralph tried cast straight upstream, across current and even downstream with the same result.
Then, as the fly swung around at the end of a mad dash downstream, something shot off the bottom and engulfed his fly. Ralph had something on the end of his line and when it felt the sting of the hook it began to make the line evaporate off Ralph’s reel like water in Death Valley. Without thinking Ralph stepped off the bank into the river.
“Holy Cow,” Ralph exclaimed as his feet shot out from under him as they hit the slippery rocks. The next sound was a loud SPLASH and Ralph was baptized in the icy cold water of the Yellowstone River. Sputtering and gasping for air he reclaimed the security of the bank still clutching his fly rod. He was amazed to see the line was still peeling off his reel and as he tried to grab the spinning handle it beat a painful tattoo on his knuckles.
“Ouch, that hurt!” Ralph looked down at his bleeding knuckles as the line continued to peel off his reel. Unwilling to attempt to grab the handle of his reel again Ralph grabbed the fly line. The tip of the rod snapped down and then the line went limp. With blood dripping from his bruised knuckles Ralph reeling in his line. His fly and most of his leader was gone. An involuntary shutter coursed through Ralph’s body and suddenly he was very cold. With water slowly draining from the pockets of his fly vest and more than a few quarts of icy cold water sloshing around in his waders Ralph made his way back to his cabin.
There were several other anglers in the dining hall when Ralph walked through the doors. He settled into an empty chair that was close enough to a group of men that were engaged in an animated conversation.
“Did you see the size of that hog I hooked on that big Bitch Creek Nymph?”
“Yeah, that was some shark.”
“Thought he was going to spool me, but I was able to slow him down by palming the spool.”
Hogs, Bitch Creek Nymph, sharks, palming the spool, Ralph thought those guys must be talking in some type of foreign language.
“Howdy, you must be Ralph.”
Ralph looked up to find a young man in blue jeans and a sun-faded khaki shirt standing next to his table.
“I’m Mitch, and I will be your guide for the next couple days. The river has been fishing pretty good the last few days so unless you have another preference we can float the Pine Creek section tomorrow.”
“Sounds good to me,” Ralph replied.
“Good. They serve breakfast here starting at 6, and I’ll pick you up around 7:30. That should put us on the river by 8:30 or so. See you then.”
Morning came early and Ralph ate a quick breakfast and returned to his cabin to assemble his gear. Right at 7:30 an old pick-up truck towing a big drift boat pulled up in front of Ralph’s cabin. In a couple minutes Ralph’s gear was stowed in the back of the truck and they were off for the river.
The Yellowstone is a big river at any time of the year, but in the few weeks right after spring run-off is over it is an even more impressive bit of water. The water lapped at the base of the willows and cottonwoods that in a few weeks would be several feet from the water’s edge. Mitch skillfully backed the drift boat down the narrow concrete ramp and quickly unloaded the boat from the trailer. With the boat securely anchored on the edge of the river Mitch moved the pick-up back to the parking lot.
“Let’s get you geared up,” Mitch said. “You get in your waders and I will rig up your rod.”
Ralph’s waders were still a bit wet inside but he pulled them on, slipped into his vest and he was ready to go. In a couple minutes the drift boat with Ralph standing in the front casting brace was slipping downstream. Ralph looked at the fly that Mitch had tied on the end of his leader and it was huge.
“Whenever you’re ready you can start casting,” Mitch said as he pulled on the oars holding the big drift boat parallel with the bank.
Ralph looked at the big fly on the end of his leader and he suddenly realized that he did not have a clue what to do. Removing the big fly from his hook keeper Ralph stripped off a few feet of line and tried to flip the big weighted fly into a back cast. As he brought his rod forward the big fly snapped forward and hit him squarely in the back of the head.
“Wow that hurt!” Ralph began rubbing the spot on the back of his neck. He picked the fly up from the bottom of the boat and stared at it.
“What do you call this thing anyway?”
“It’s a Bitch Creek nymph. It imitates the large stoneflies that are getting ready to hatch. The big nymphs are crawling into shallow water so they can crawl out and hatch. That’s why you need to cast your fly right up next to the bank.”
“Cast it!!!! Why I would be lucky if I could throw it over there. I can’t cast this thing. Don’t you have something smaller and lighter?”
Mitch pulled on the oars and slid the boat into the slower water on the inside of a bend where he dropped the anchor.
To Be Continued.