The sepia-toned photographs of the turn of the century depict anglers dressed casually, reflecting the early 20th century. They wore collared starched white shirts, tweed jackets, or corduroy, paired with riding breeches and hobnailed footwear. This era predates synthetic waders, and wet wading or casting from the banks was the norm. Anglers didn’t rush; they sat on the riverbank, enjoying cucumber sandwiches and sipping hot tea while watching for rising fish. Wet flies were the preferred choice, swung in rhythm through the current. When hatches began, dry flies were tied on, but only after careful examination of the hatch. Bamboo rods, silk lines, and horsehair tippets were the epitome of fly fishing. I believe we’ve lost the art of fly fishing in our pursuit of quantity over quality or the desire for trophies. No catch and release was practiced, as these photographs captured the essence of a successful day on the river. Today, we face a similar challenge: an overabundance of fishermen, overly simplistic techniques, and the fish becoming mere commodities rather than beautiful creatures.
How many anglers dress up for a day on the river? Most of us, with coffee in hand and bleary eyes, crawl behind the wheel and head down the road, heading to our secret spot. We tug on our waders and lace up the boots, but then we turn around after a minute, thinking, “Did we lock up our car?” Racing back in fear that all our goodies have disappeared, we hope it’s not true. We find everything is fine, except we left our fly boxes on the front seat. Panic ensues as we race to that secret spot, hoping no one else is there.
The secret spot, renowned among anglers for its long-standing reputation and popularity, has witnessed a decline in exploration. The honey hole, a cherished fishing destination from spring stocking until the end of the season, has become a short walk away for most anglers. During my recent visit, I stumbled upon a hidden gem that many would overlook. Surprisingly, I caught a few fish there, which was quite satisfying.
We quickly slip into the flow and make a few sloppy casts, either snagging a branch or catching the bottom. Either way, a fly is lost in the first few seconds. Now, panic is in full swing as fish start to steadily rise just out of reach. We pick out a good fly and immediately drop it, watching agape as it sinks out of sight. The rest of the session is as bad. Soon, company arrives. They look calm and refreshed, seemingly knowledgeable that there was no rush. They took the time to clean up, comb what little hair is left, put on some clean clothes, and eat breakfast early, no need to gulp down coffee as they drive. Their arrival was timed to the morning hatch, and they didn’t waste time or unproductive casting. They caught their fill.
I followed the angler back to the cars and watched as he systematically put his gear away. He changed his boots into a pair of brogans and carefully slipped into a sports coat, adjusting the knot of his tie. He commented that he’d be back for the evening hatch after work. I sat on the tailgate of my pickup truck, my hat hair standing as testimony to my lack of preparation. That was me a few years ago, getting in an hour of fishing and spending my day earning a living.
