07-28-2009, 07:14 PM
Finally the crowds have gone home, the campsites are abandoned, the tubers a long memory, I can finally get some piece. I step into the river to the "hole" and the memories came flooding back each time I revisit the "hole"...
Fly fishing for me really started about 10 years ago. Oh sure, before that I had tried to fly fish, but ended up tying on a snelled hook and a worm and dapping into holes. As I sat bench side on the river I looked down stream and watched as this fly fisher started to cast into the "hole" (later when I learned to read the water, I found it was a slick seam full of fish that sat on the slow side and would dart into the current for food). Within a minute, he had one on, then another, then another. Three quick fish. My mouth fell open. I had dragged a roostertail by that area, but never caught a fish (again because I wasn't fishing the right spot). He walked up stream from me, catching a fish here and there. Was pleasant and said "Hi" as I said "Hi" and was around the bend. That was it, I was going to fly fish. So I bought a shakespere "Black Beauty" in 5 wt in a combo with line and a real and some kind of flies labeled "nymphs". I snagged another "nymph" assortment and headed to the river. I went to the spot where I saw the previous fisherman cast, tied on a size 12 prince nymph (at the time, I had no idea what it was, it was all I had) to a three foot section of 12 pound mono that came with the pole, and began to flail and whip this broomstick of a pole back and forth. If anyone on the river saw me, they probably though I was a lion tamer, or fighting off a vicious band of hidden ninjas instead of "casting". I finally managed to choke out 15 feet of line in front of me and watched as it floated down. I didn't know about mending, or shooting, or anything. I didn't use a strike indicator, tight line, just hoped for the best. About the third float through the hole, something flashed on the bottom. I pulled up my line hoping to flip it to the location (not understanding my nymph as riding behind the line I could see) and my rod bend double. It was pulsating and throbbing, dancing in my hands causing my whole body to shake with excitement. I started to reel in and fought the fish across and down until it gave up and came to my hand. It was an 18 inch whitefish. Stuck in the side of its impossibly small mouth was my fly. I unhooked it and it swam back to the depths. I returned to my spot and a couple of casts later, its twin struck and again I fought it to hand. Two hours and two fish later, I left excited to begin my journey.
...I pulled out some line and began a smooth cast with my St. Croix. The line gently landed on the river, twisting like a snake in the micro currents that make this hole so tricky. I mend to keep the float as drag free as possible. I watch the small pinch on indicator as it rides down and through the hole, bobbing and weaving its way around the small rocks. Nothing. Again. Nothing. The next time through, I let the fly ride through the hole and swing it to the surface. That did it. The rod jars in my hand as the fish struck. A quick battle and a small 12 inch brown goes back. I'm done. In only need to catch one a year to "revisit" my fly fishing roots, so to speak. I move up river, hitting holes that produce bigger fish, but I always go back to the "hole" as a pilgrimage to where it all started for me.
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Fly fishing for me really started about 10 years ago. Oh sure, before that I had tried to fly fish, but ended up tying on a snelled hook and a worm and dapping into holes. As I sat bench side on the river I looked down stream and watched as this fly fisher started to cast into the "hole" (later when I learned to read the water, I found it was a slick seam full of fish that sat on the slow side and would dart into the current for food). Within a minute, he had one on, then another, then another. Three quick fish. My mouth fell open. I had dragged a roostertail by that area, but never caught a fish (again because I wasn't fishing the right spot). He walked up stream from me, catching a fish here and there. Was pleasant and said "Hi" as I said "Hi" and was around the bend. That was it, I was going to fly fish. So I bought a shakespere "Black Beauty" in 5 wt in a combo with line and a real and some kind of flies labeled "nymphs". I snagged another "nymph" assortment and headed to the river. I went to the spot where I saw the previous fisherman cast, tied on a size 12 prince nymph (at the time, I had no idea what it was, it was all I had) to a three foot section of 12 pound mono that came with the pole, and began to flail and whip this broomstick of a pole back and forth. If anyone on the river saw me, they probably though I was a lion tamer, or fighting off a vicious band of hidden ninjas instead of "casting". I finally managed to choke out 15 feet of line in front of me and watched as it floated down. I didn't know about mending, or shooting, or anything. I didn't use a strike indicator, tight line, just hoped for the best. About the third float through the hole, something flashed on the bottom. I pulled up my line hoping to flip it to the location (not understanding my nymph as riding behind the line I could see) and my rod bend double. It was pulsating and throbbing, dancing in my hands causing my whole body to shake with excitement. I started to reel in and fought the fish across and down until it gave up and came to my hand. It was an 18 inch whitefish. Stuck in the side of its impossibly small mouth was my fly. I unhooked it and it swam back to the depths. I returned to my spot and a couple of casts later, its twin struck and again I fought it to hand. Two hours and two fish later, I left excited to begin my journey.
...I pulled out some line and began a smooth cast with my St. Croix. The line gently landed on the river, twisting like a snake in the micro currents that make this hole so tricky. I mend to keep the float as drag free as possible. I watch the small pinch on indicator as it rides down and through the hole, bobbing and weaving its way around the small rocks. Nothing. Again. Nothing. The next time through, I let the fly ride through the hole and swing it to the surface. That did it. The rod jars in my hand as the fish struck. A quick battle and a small 12 inch brown goes back. I'm done. In only need to catch one a year to "revisit" my fly fishing roots, so to speak. I move up river, hitting holes that produce bigger fish, but I always go back to the "hole" as a pilgrimage to where it all started for me.
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