Ban the BOBBER!

In a recent TU email there was an essay on strike indicators. The author argued against the use of bobbers, strike indicators and various methods in aiding in the catching of fish. I whole heartily agree! The lost craft of fly fishing and the joy and beauty is lost in the pursuit of numbers as an indication of success. 

Yes you can nymph without such aids and if you do so you will develop a deeper sense and attachment to the art of fly fishing. Adding a split shot or a bit of tungsten putty will get a fly down in the zone. The acquisition of patience and observation will increase the chances of a hook up. The use of barbless hooks will not mean lost fish. 

Using the wrong tippet size appropriate the size of the fly, doesn't mean 7X. Or the fish will see my tippet knots. Lack of care in presentation and not scouting the waters before casting will send all the fish scurrying for cover. Oh, dries don't always have to be cast upstream, a careful cast with a small puddle of line fed out as the fly drifts down to a rising fish works. 

Stop making unnecessary false cast and if the cast land where you didn't intend it, work it back as any other cast and reload for the next. Don't rip it out of the water and hurry another misplaced cast. A missed fish need will never be in the same spot, so give it a rest. 

So that's my thoughts, I've always viewed fly fishing as a zen moment and stalking a rising trout requires patience and time. You don't need to fish hatches only, just adjust your technique and maybe if they're not cooperating it's just not a good time. Fly fishing is something you don't rush into. Enjoy the moments and the beauty around you.

To the Last Fly

 Despite my longing for solitude, I’ve spent countless hours fishing with friends over the years. Years later, my mind often takes me on a bizarre journey back in time to the exact moment I cherished their company. One such friend was Willie, a simple soul who worked for me spraying trees. Initially, I was taken aback by his speech pattern and his peculiar habit of repeating words in sentences without any context or meaning. However, beneath his quirks lay an honest man with a deep passion for fishing. He knew all the hidden gems where trout sought refuge in the secluded creeks and brackish waters that dotted the south shore.

As a native of the north shore, I was utterly captivated by this newfound world. While I was a decent fly caster, I wasn’t particularly skilled at fishing and aspired to improve. Willie would arrive at work every morning and embark on his assigned route. Occasionally, I would find a large brown trout in the office refrigerator. One day, my curiosity got the better of me, and I couldn’t resist asking him a question. This question led to our first outing on a rainy day when work was slow. That day, I caught my first south shore trout, and I was instantly hooked.

Now, let me clarify that I had been fishing for most of my life. I received my first fly rod at the tender age of 12. I had caught plenty of perch and bluegills and even managed to catch a few odd trout here and there. However, the mysteries of the streams remained elusive to me. While I could swing a streamer and occasionally catch a few fish, the dark art of nymphing was beyond my skill set. Forget about fishing dries; I was utterly confused by the various hatches and expert charts. But as I learned the value of patience, I gradually acquired some of these essential tools.  

In the early nineties, Bill complained of vision problems and headaches. He tried to ignore them, but his boss noticed the low production and wanted to fire him. Bill confided in me that he probably needed to quit and move on. It was easier said than done for a guy in his late fifties with no real skills than doing tree work. So, I suggested that I drive him along his route and do most of the work so that he could at least get paid. After two weeks, Bill said he couldn’t see anymore and driving to work was an issue.

So, he left. We reunited for an evening session at Connetquot, and we both had a fantastic time catching brook trout by the dozens. That evening, he shared some heartbreaking news with me—he had brain cancer and had only a few months to live. He also asked me to keep an eye on his house and gifted me a special token of his affection—his father’s fly rod, complete with the last fly his father ever fished—a dark Hendrickson. I still have that fly in one of my fly boxes as a memory of a decent man.