There is something about the doing of it that makes fly fishing special. About going deeper into a world and connecting with something special at a basic, visceral level. When I look at the mountain, I see it from a distance. I know the river flows below beneath it, and that trout sway in its currents and seams. I know it, just as I know that fish swim in the sea. When I gaze at the beauty in the waves and colors and sounds of the ocean I see it as I see the mountains and rivers and forests. Out there.
I knew I would catch a fish there when I saw the hole appear around the bend of tall grass. It was only a question of how many or how big. It was early morning. I had caught a few smaller fish and had decided it was turning into a good day’s fishing. One of the trout I had caught had run under the cutbank and wrapped around some roots. And I had already achieved a not too uncommon wind knot in my tippet. I told myself I could fish this frayed and knotted tippet a bit longer. Had I known, I might have replaced my worn tippet. But of course, I should have known.
Fishing was slow, but I was optimistic. The East Fork of the Sevier River is more of a small stream than a river. The water rarely widens more than a dirt road, but it is enough. High desert grasses and steep hills make for beautiful scenery and there is easy access along the highway. I had never been skunked in that section and it was rare to see other fishermen in the canyon. So far, I was alone. It was blue skies and when the wind stopped, the sun warmed me. A smile on my face. Why not be optimistic?
Getting to know the river is important for finding your own spots that you know will produce fish. Even if it is a short stop at the stream, every little bit of time on the water counts. If you are fortunate enough to live close to a trout stream, but short on time, stopping to wet a line even for fifteen to thirty minutes can add up and help build experience.
The boy knew nothing of cold mornings, or trout streams, or cattle behind the cabin in the woods. He did not know of the work it took to keep the land, or the joy that came with the work. He did not know that the children were gone and not coming back. About the struggle beyond this trip to the river. The boy did not know many things, but the man did, so he took him fishing.
The art of the missed hookset is nuanced and complex. Like most artforms, grasping one aspect of the missed hook set does not translate into a full understanding and mastery of the overall process. It takes a greater level of skill to miss the hook set on a trout after years of experience, but truly great fly fishermen and women do not succumb to complacency in the other aspects of the sport they love, so it follows that the art of missing hook sets is no different.
In my youth I fished a trout stream with reckless abandon. Wading fluidly with balance and precision. Leaping from boulder to boulder with confidence. Wading out, deep and often. When I spied a nice piece of water across the river, I went there, fished it, and moved on without thought to the why of it. Fishy water on the other side? Cross back, of course. Passing on a potential hook up for mere convenience seemed a waste. In my eyes, every spot, regardless of which side of the river it lay, held not only the possibility, but the probability that I might hook into a monster trout. I could persistently zig zag trout waters like this with a carefree foot and a smile on my face on every outing.