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I'm a middle aged married guy with an eight year old
daughter and I'm obsessed with fly-fishing. This is
not a problem because I'm under the assumption that
life is supposed to be an endless string of chaos broken
up with brief moments of clarity. I'm currently trying to
identify the moments of clarity that flashed by my window
during a 3,000-mile family vacation. Which, if I can
digress already, strikes me as an oxymoron. Wouldn't a
family vacation be one where you go alone? Anyway, alone
I was not; in fact my fishing on this trip was pretty much
a wonderful string of excursions to a remarkable variety
of waters with equally remarkable people.
My last day on the water was with Al Campbell showing me
around Rapid Creek. We took a break to try and regroup our
brains and get into a few more fish then the sparse results
up to that point. Sitting on the bank I opened my fly box
in search of inspiration and Al exclaimed, "Hold on there,
I've got to get a picture of that fly box!"
I can't really say what other people see when they look at
my main trout box. I know I often see the spaces where I'm
missing something I think I really need right then. But
Al's attention made me take a slightly more objective look
at my box and after he took his photos and I picked out a
fly that worked no better or worse than the one I cut off
my line; I continued to think about my fly box.
The first thing everyone notices is that it's a handmade wood
box. It's more a functional creation than a work of art but
the wood is scraps from a frame I made for a charity benefit
so it has fond memories of it's own. Inside it is a record
of my experiences as well as a reflection of my anticipations
and hopes. Mostly it's filled with my own work but distributed
throughout are contributions from others, both gifts and swaps.
Some of the flies trigger memories of fulfilling events, others
remind me of seasons or traditions while others sit there unknown
and untried promising to be the perfect incantation to unravel
a secret spell. Then there are the empty spaces, which carry
far more weight than they suggest. These spaces are made up
of true triumphs that just wore out with age, gifts that I
was able to give to others who's boxes were lacking in my
own strengths, or (that which I remember the least) tragedies
of lost opportunities or bad decisions broken off and left
behind.
It is not a young man's fly box, although my youth can be found
in it. Hopper patterns that were my transition from live bait
to flies, when I discovered how much easier it was to use a
fly than run around my Idaho streams catching grasshoppers
between fish. I was lucky enough to revisit the waters of
my youth on this trip when I stopped for a few days at my
parents and Fished the Middle Fork of the Boise with James
Pio. I'd been watching James for a few years as he learned
the wonders of his new home in Boise. I enjoyed pointing him
away from the well-known and well-healed waters and towards
the Idaho I knew as a child and also knew still existed up
rough dirt roads. After several years of Internet correspondence
we finally got the opportunity to head out and wade a river
together. We fished along the road and then ended the day
with a revisit to one of my first fly-fishing revelations.
The water with the toughest hike from the road holds the
best fish. A respectable rainbow and cutthroat were my rewards
for a vertical climb and bushwhacking.
A few days later I was using the predawn light at Almont, Colorado
to peer into my fly box looking for an answer to the Gunnison
River. I had already tried a dry and dropper combination and
had the same results as the night before when I had a spare
hour to fish around the campsite, a few small fish. Well,
I'd had enough of "proper" technique and the match the hatch
approach; it was time to teach some browns about anger management.
Although I keep a separate streamer wallet in my back pouch,
I keep a selection of streamers in my main box as well. I
fished the whole stretch, from the campground up to the town,
ripping big bunny strip streamers through pockets, seams and
pools, yanking out countless respectable fish which needed
timeouts because they couldn't share their space with something
as flashy as themselves. I met my wife and daughter in town
for morning coffee as most folks were just getting up and
heading out for the day, with my fishing needs completely
satiated. The early bird then had the rest of the day to
eat the worm.
Every now and then I even buy a few flies to add to my box. I
usually do this when I'm in a fly shop away from home and have
pumped the staff for some local insight. It's not much
compensation for their assistance but it's a time-honored
gesture. I gladly bought a few flies a couple days later at
Flies and Lies in Deckers, I wanted to replace my clear 6wt
line and buy a pair of Simms neoprene socks but they had
neither. I didn't need the line and socks right then but
I will be buying them soon and I wanted to spend the money
there to do my part to offset the losses of the Hayman fire.
The river was dark with ash but the shop owner told me the
fish were there and feeding on any nymphs they could see.
Indeed they were and I had a couple nice mornings nymphing
the usual haunts. It was with mixed emotions that I waded
into that mess of natural destruction but if I didn't fish
it I wouldn't know how much it will be changed in two years
when I return. Fishing is my connection to nature and I need
to maintain that connection when either nature or myself are
hitting rock bottom.
As I said earlier some of my flies sit unused for years,
waiting for their potential. Such was the case with Joe,
or as I knew him from the bulletin board, Riverats. Joe
and I tried to meet on my previous visit to the cabin but
communications failed (communications are primitive at the
cabin, in fact they don't exist) and we missed the chance
but promised to try again. This time I was better organized
and was treated to a trip to the St. Vrain. Joe really had
his heart set on directing me to a day of brookies, browns,
bows and greenbacks, which was more pressure than this tourist
is used to but I was more than willing to try. Well, first off
a fine fly fishing tourist like myself would figure that if
going up to Lyons to fish the St. Vrain one should bump into
John Geriach. Sure enough like he was on salary with the tourist
bureau John was in the Café when we stopped to pick up some
sandwiches. Joe knew him and introduced us and John was cool
enough not to get all clingy and fawn over me, telling me how
much he enjoyed my work when we were introduced. He did however
get worked up enough to divulge the name of an under utilized
watershed where he went on the weekends, then wondered aloud
how the hell that fell out of his mouth.
I must confess to having a few flies in my box that shouldn't
have been allowed off the tying desk. I don't know why I
sometimes fail to edit these decisions; it could be an
assumption that anything is better than nothing or my faith
that my fishing skills can overcome a raggedy fly. I welcomed
my final fishing invitation in Colorado from someone who
introduced me to the finer details of Cheesman canyon 3
years ago. David needed a relief from a hectic job and
offered to introduce me to the Miracle Mile of the S.
Platte below Spinney Reservoir. In David's usual style
of hard nosed combat fishing we were to meet at the 285
park and ride at 4:30 AM so as to be some of the first
on the water as well as back early enough to get some work
done. Something at dinner went to work on me and by 3:30
I was puking back by the outhouse, but I was sure that I
would be fine by sunrise. Instead at sunrise I was briskly
walking across the desolate landscape of South Park praying
that the outhouse in the distance wasn't a mirage. I spent
the whole morning with several brief efforts at fishing
followed by longer stints napping away nausea next to the
stream. I managed not to chum the river and I even managed
to annoy one respectable rainbow enough to impale himself
on my hook. David's infinite sympathy led him to comment
that it's a good thing I caught a fish or he wouldn't let
me forget the skunking. There is no way I'm going to forget
this outing, high altitude, desert fishing is no way to get
over food poisoning. There are some ills even fishing can't
soothe.
By the last stop on this vacation my fly box was showing some
bald spots, it being the first trip I didn't bring my tying
ensemble. However there were only two possible days for fishing
in the Black Hills and I knew I could make do. The glitch
turned out to be my wife's cousin deciding the best option
was a local river filled with small mouth and carp. To date
I had fished for neither and certainly not tied flies for
either as well. But then again if you've got a woolly bugger
than you're prepared for pretty much anything. It was a grand
excursion, as new to me as any exotic locale could be. I hooked
and lost a couple carp right away but was still impressed with
how spooky they are. I have suspected for a while that I didn't
have the eyesight for carp fishing and the suspicion was being
confirmed as I missed or spooked fish after fish. The small
mouth were not present in the numbers or size that my
cousin-in-law was used to but the carp were entertaining enough
for me as well as healthy numbers of the largest and brightest
bluegill I've ever caught. Finally a mile upstream we spied
a few good bass cruising the far side of the river. Never
before have I seen a fish turn so hard and fast on a fly
splatting on the water. One twitch of the flash-a-mudler
someone sent me in a swap last year and it was fish-on. It
was a fight worthy of the Smallie's reputation I keep hearing
and I brought to hand a fish that reached from finger tips
to the inside of my elbow. I stepped back and let Greg cast
to and land the next one and we both had photos to share with
the family back at the ranch. That same flashy, well-chewed
mudler caught my first cruising carp, contradicting most of
what I've read and heard on the subject. Later I had a good
shot at another carp where I could let my bugger sit on the
bottom. I was in a good position and laid down a good cast
and just as the fish turned on my fly I saw very long whiskers.
Oh what the hell it's all exotic; and I set the hook on my
first catfish. It was big and mean and looked very tasty and
finished off some sort of Dakota Grand Slam.
Al Campbell was to be my last fishing partner on the trip and
I looked forward to it like the fly in my box purchased years
before for that special hatch that I'd yet to hit. Al and I
tried to fish a couple years before but the timing was wrong
and we had to wait for our orbits to come around again. That's
one of the beauties of a middle-aged fly box, it knows of
seasons and patience and has some space set aside for reserved
flies. Al showed me some new flies and a new way to fish them;
sort of a cross between nymphing and streamer fishing how I
would describe this wet fly fishing. Once again my companion
and I caught our share of fish but the prize was in sharing
local knowledge of a river with another fly fisher, and for
me it was the joy of watching a fellow fly fisher come to life.
My fly box is well stocked and I can make anything it might need.
Often however, I will take a new fly when offered from friend or
stranger. Maybe I'll use it or maybe not, but I will always
appreciate the nature of the giving and respect the
camaraderie of the exchange. I'm old enough and wise enough
to know that I've much to learn but not nearly wise enough
to recognize every opportunity as it's happening. I'll
sometimes open my box and peer at the contents knowing
the answer to the puzzle is right there, a fly I've made
and used before or one that someone gave me even though I
couldn't see its usefulness, a pattern I use all the time
or one that has languished for years. I sit there beside
the water and search knowing the answer is there in my fly
box, sure that I have seen all the evidence needed but in
the end relying on faith to make the choice. That's what
my box is, a lifelong collection of faith. ~ Paul
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