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It wasn't long ago that I wanted to learn
the skillful art of the fly fisherman; the
graceful form of casting artificial bait
and bewitching wary trout into eating
something inedible. I imagined peaceful
river waters as they flowed around my waders
while I secretly crept closer to the unsuspecting
comforts of their lair. So enticing was this
vision, I had stepped into the arena with my
own tied fly, which would surely bring even
more excitement when I led the river dwelling
Pisces into my net while hooked to the end of
a 2X tippet. This was the romantic picture I
had seen in my dreams.
Once upon a time, not too long ago, I took my
adult son Matthew fly fishing to a local river
where it meanders along parts of South Hulen
Street in Fort Worth, Texas. We were parked
near part of the city's Trinity Bike Trails
near a portion of river where trout are stocked
several times each winter.
The day was nice; well... as nice as cold days
get anyway; I suppose the term "cold" is relative
in this story. We were at about 40-degrees Fahrenheit
with gusty winds putting the wind chill near 30,
and water temperature on the river was in the
upper 50-degree range. Neither of us had ever
fly-fished a river before, much less for trout,
so we were in the novice range on this day to
say the least. Since the Trinity Bike Trails run
so close to the river, I did not want to look
like a ninny walking on the bike trail to the
river in my brand spanking new chest-waders,
so I wore knee boots and found a nice shallow
spot where I could wade into water about 6-inches
deep. The wading was nice and I was moving slowly
from eddy to eddy carefully picking safe footing
as I moved through the water.
About 70-yards west of me I noticed that Matthew
had made his way upstream to a small pool area
that was being fed by a low water dam about 4-feet
higher in elevation from the portion of the river
that I was working. This pool was bordered by hand
laid rock and cement, which angled down from the
actual river bank at about 30 degrees, similar
to the angle that we all see under bridges where
hoboes sit when escaping inclement weather. The
pool was about 40-yards square, and looked like
it was probably about 4-feet deep in places. After
about fifteen minutes or so, Matthew was approaching
me with a large smile on his face carrying a 1-pound
rainbow trout, 13 or so inches in length. I felt the
excitement swell up inside as I savored this moment
with him, his first trout! I'm sure we would've
sported a few high fives if we wouldn't have been
risking the loss of his fish while doing so.
It didn't take long for me to decide that I was
fishing in the wrong water, so I followed him up
to his portion of the river, on the opposite bank.
After all, no matter how proud I was of his catch,
I wouldn't let the boy out fish me without a little
extra effort on my part. I wasn't able to wade at
this location because I could see moss growing
underwater on the cement slab and knew any step
placed on that would send me into the water. Matthew
let me hold his trout in my back vest pocket while
he went back to the truck to get his stringer, and
was soon back fishing his side of the river. (We
hadn't wanted to jinx the trip by carrying the
stringer with us.)
After several casts, I decided that I wouldn't
be able to see a strike because of the heavy
current and the poor eyesight age has dealt me,
so I placed a strike indicator on my line making
this a much easier task. About 30-minutes passed
without either of us having any action, so I
started inching away casting from the cement slab
and watching my strike indicator with true diligence.
Suddenly, I was no longer standing, but was sitting
on the river bottom, chest high in water that felt
much colder than it was, gasping for air from the
shock, and struggling to stand on the slick bottom.
After what seemed like 10-minutes or more (maybe
5-seconds) I was standing in knee deep water,
panting, dripping from chest to toe. Actually,
I wasn't "dripping" from my toes, because my
rubber boots with my feet still in them were on
the river bottom full of ice cold water, but if
they could have dripped they certainly would have.
I was flabbergasted to say the least.
Did I mention that it was cold and the wind was gusty?
In an effort to hide my embarrassment and determined
not to be out-done, I made a quick cast then stood
there in my wet everythings and peeked over at my
son to see if he'd seen the disaster. Once I saw
that he was eagerly watching his line, I made another
cast just like nothing had happened, and as I waited
for the olive wooly bugger to descend I glanced at
the recently unoccupied river bank and spotted a
water seep through three cracks in the cement slant
complete with green algae growth about two feet above
the water line. I continued my act of fishing like
I'd moved into the water on purpose, casting again
while ignoring the biker's laughter as they went by
slowly on the bike trail taking in the comic scene.
I thought, "Obviously they know absolutely nothing
about river fishing or they would know that from
time to time fly fishermen wade wet on purpose.
After all, a predator must adapt to the conditions
of the prey if he wants to eat!"
"Yeah... right," I said under my breath feeling
childish for the thought.
I had unconsciously ignored another fact; they
were traveling slow because they were laughing
too hard to pedal! I suppose the humor was warranted;
I too would have laughed at such a sight. After
ignoring another 15-minutes of unadulterated abuse
by the bikers, (in truth they were imagined, but
too real in my mind) I decided it wasn't a real
good day for wade fishing under my present condition
unless I wanted a big dose of pneumonia, so I reeled
in my line, and began the climb to dry land; at least
it was dry before I got there.
After a short walk, I realized the comedy was
just beginning. I had to make a half mile walk
on the bike trail to my truck, dripping wet,
and sloshing in my knee boots with every shivering
step. I was soon laughing to myself enjoying the
whole miserable experience, knowing that this
would be one fishing excursion I would never
forget. Especially since I had shared it with
my son. ~ MH
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