We all go to the river for different reasons, but there is a solitude we all seek from fly fishing. In some way, at some time that solitude haunts us. Through the patterns of wading alone in the natural world we come to know ourselves. That experience is a treasure. Shall we give up on it because of pressured waters? Or will we keep walking?
We oversimplify the pursuit of trout when we think changing flies will result in more fish caught. Surely fly fishing can be a simple endeavor if we let it be. Carry a fly rod and some flies to the river. Wade through its currents and cast flies to where the trout swim below. Wade and cast. Wade and cast. If the fish do not reward you, the overutilized solution is often to change flies and continue on.
It is one thing to not catch fish while nymphing. It is another to be hooking up all day and then come up short on a great spot.
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.