Last year I bought a Tee shirt that caught my eye. A white line drawing of a fly fisherman casting a beautiful loop on a navy blue background with the words "Poetry in Silence." It's a wonderful thought, b ut often romanticized. Oh, I can cast a perfect loop like that from time to time, but the reality of fly fishing, especially for an aging fly fisher is often less than poetic, if not silent.
Like the sport itself, the art of fly fishing is particularly challenging for the aging fisherman. Some have challenges with walking in a river, or balance in slinking on and over boulders or slippery river bottoms, while others deal with the ravages of Parkinson's or Dementia. For others it's simply the strength in their legs, or strain on their backs.
Like myself, most older fly fishers are often just glad to be there. Fly fishing takes us to some of the most beautiful places on Earth. With that comes the concern that if not fully aware and careful we could be seriously injured or die in this beautiful places. The key is to be fully present at all times. Easier said than done. Just as people who ride horses know that they will most likely take a spill now and then, fly fishers are bound to take an unplanned dip in a river or lake from time to time. It comes with the territory. Like the horseback rider, the fly fisher must get up and back at it (if possible) right away. It helps to fish with a buddy too.
When I retired from full-time teaching, a student asked me one afternoon what I was most looking forward to. My response was one simple word.
"October," I said.
He looked puzzled and quickly explained that to be able to go fishing on a weekday in October was a special pleasure. I added that by fall, the summer tourists are gone, the weather turns colder at Alpine lakes and the swimmers and paddle boarders are gone. The fish are aware that winter is coming and with colder water are more active and aware of putting on weight before winter hits.
With all this in mind, I went to my favorite alpine lake last week seeking one more chance to float tube this little gem, try out a few new flies, and seek the serenity of some silent poetry. The first snow of the season had already peppered the landscape the weekend before, but by mid week, it had melted leaving only temperatures in the 30s. I layered up fairly well, rose at 5 am and ever mindful of every move, began the process of getting to this lake.
The drive into the mountains at an early hour is usually peaceful. It's still dark out and the bulk of morning traffic has yet to emerge. As I began the drive from city to mountains, I noticed the temperature begin to drop. Starting out at almost sea level the 56 degrees at 5:30 soon dropped to 36 degrees by 2,000feet. In another 2000 feet, it would be 33 degrees. But the sky was clear and heading due east, the sun wasn't yet visible and in my eyes. Low clouds and fog still danced over the highway.
I saw the turnoff sign and quietly made by way a couple of miles more to the day use parking lot. It was now close to 7:30. What followed was the transformation from normal looking person to fly fisherman. After inflating my float tube, I found my waders and taking off my jeans quickly put on the stocking foot waders. My hands were beginning to feel the cold, and the cold material of my waders was a shock from the warm Levis I shed. I pulled up the suspender-like straps, fastened the belt buckle and began the arduous task of getting my feet inside wading boots. That done, I placed my lanyard around my neck and located my life jacket.
The next 20 minutes were spent in rigging up my fly rod. There are two sections, and 10 eyelets to drag the fly line through. I use a two fly set up, so first I chose the larger streamer fly, a black wooly bugger and tied to the hook of that a small leech type pattern called a stillwater stimulator. Nobody knows exactly what this fly imitates; I just know it works...well.
After a quick trip to a nearby outhouse I was ready to haul everything down to the boat ramp and get out on the water. The trip down to lakeside is downhill, so I carry everything. In my right hand I hoist the float tube and try to keep it a few inches off the ground. On my left wrist I hang my swim fins while holding my net and fly rod. It's a load, but the way down is much easier than the trip back. Plus there is always the feeling of anticipation and wondering what the day will bring.
It is now 7: 45 and a crucial step remains. I set the float tube down half in the water and retreat to a nearby rock big enough to sit on. The arduous task of getting the fins on is next. Once done and all straps tightened, I slowly sidestep and make my way over to the tube. This is a most important step because so much can go wrong if you don't sit down correctly. The trick is to slowly walk the tube to slightly deeper water, slowly turn around and then supporting the tube with both hands, slowly sit down without bouncing around. A float tube can act like a big tiddly wink and launch a would-be fisherman into the water if one is too hasty.
This day, I did well and glided out into the lake with ease. But...I was met with a stiff wind that made propelling myself tricky. Wind is the constant enemy of the fly fisher. The light floating line and the even lighter leaders are easily blown about. That leads to frequent tangles and poor casts. Fortunately, on a lake, long casts are not as necessary and a careful backcast is not of major concern because everything around the floating fisher is either empty space or water. No trees to hang up on.
By 8:30 I caught the first fish of the day. A modest rainbow trout of about 8 inches. He took the smaller fly. Within the next 30 minutes I manages to hook two more fish, a slightly bigger rainbow who took the upper fly, the black wooly bugger. Shorty after his release my rod bent mightily and a larger fish was on. As I stripped in line in an attempt to collect all the line on the reel, the action stopped and the fish was off. What happened?
Either the fish broke me off or my knot didn't hold, or both. I had been mindful of securing my knots carefully, but when your hands are freezing and the wind is ripping away, it presents a formidable challenge. It happens, I told myself. Time to re-rig and get my line back in the water.
While trying to tie on a new fly, the wind was whipping anew. Unconsciously I stopped kicking and never noticed how far and where the wind was blowing me. After a few attempts at fly tieing, I looked up to find I'd been blown back toward the bank of the lake. The water here was shallow and muddy and with much effort I kicked back into deeper water and resumed the task.
With the new fly tied securely in place, I noticed that the thin leader had tangled at the top of my rod. Not being able to set the fly rod down because you are sitting in a U-shaped float tube, it's difficult to reach the top of the rod and try to untangle the line. I wondered, for a split second, if I should call it a day. Sometimes, it's better to give in to the elements and try another day. But this was deep into October and the other day wouldn't come until late May or early June.
I stubbornly persisted. By the time everything was ready to go, another setback. The wind had blown my lower fly back toward me and the fly caught on my fleece glove. A forceps ultimately freed the fly and I was ready to resume. But, not for long. In the effort to unhook the fly from my glove, the wind whipped line had again tangled. Patience and determination allowed me to resume fishing in 10 minutes.
By 9:45 I landed another fish. It was a 12 inch rainbow with the orange throat slashes of a cutthroat trout. A cross between rainbow and cutthroat called a "cut bow." With the reddish pink body, and the black spots of the rainbow, these red-orange throat markings make for one beautiful fish. I admired him for a few seconds and then released him easily.
By now the wind was less consistent, but occasionally a huge gust would spin me around or in one case blow off my hat. Fortunately, the hat stayed afloat and I was able to retrieve it without a struggle. I chuckled at the sight of myself trying to catch up to a floating hat while the wind had its way with me. Fortunately that didn't happen.
At 10:30, while taking a breather and simply drifting a bit I was jolted with the sudden spinning of my reel. This is nirvana to a fly fisher. Something hit my fly with full intention. Long time fly fishers are fond of saying "the tug is the drug." Simply put, that feeling of something wild on the other end of your line is addictive. This tug was like an overdose. Trying to stay calm and strip in some line and carefully play this fish, I settled in for the battle that was sure to follow. Within seconds, the line went loose and that sinking feeling everyone who fishes experiences told me that this fish had come off for some unknown reason. It may simply have been he wasn't hooked well, or spit the fly, or his strength could have broken the thin leader. I got a real clue what happened when just as I was adjusting to this sudden change of fortune a large rainbow leapt about 10 feet out of the water about 20 yards in front of me. That was my fish saying good-bye. Otherwise known as a quick release, I muttered a few choice words and kept on. Just making contact with this kind of fish is usually enough, but I must confess that I would have liked to meet him in person.
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