A battle of wits and emotions
The range of emotions experienced during a typical fly fishing trip can be exhausting. When I return home tired and worn out, it’s not always from catching fish, or the lack thereof, that causes this, but from a rollercoaster of shifting feelings.
Not long ago, I was sitting by a river in the Smokies, reflecting on all the different feelings that catching a single fish can trigger, from tying the fly to fishing with it.
As it should be, most fishing trips start long before casting and wading begin. My optimistic fish-catching attitude begins when I sit at the fly-tying bench, preparing for the next trip.
Attempting to recreate a deceptive fly from feathers, fur, and synthetics sparks wandering thoughts of what this fly might catch, always hoping for a fish of a lifetime. Usually, I hold the first completed fly of a new pattern in my fingertips, cradling this creation and imagining a large hook-jawed brown trout or rainbow beast attached to it. Unfortunately, this never happens, but doing it makes me feel good.
Some fishing trips are more emotional than others. A good example was a recent trip to fish a tailwater river in Western North Carolina. I hadn’t fished there in a while because of heavy rains and a not-so-angler-friendly generation schedule. Thinking back on past trips, I was flooded with flashbacks of hungry fish from previous outings. But it was late winter, and the weather had been fiercely wet and cold, so expectations weren’t very high.
Anticipation
A few flies were tied the night before. I kept telling myself it was time for a fly box cleanout one rainy afternoon, and to make room for some new patterns. Instead, I thought I’d just stuff a few of the new ones in there, much like my wife adding three more shoe boxes to her closet. I’m told there’s always room for more.
Driving along the paved road on the right bank of the river downstream, I occasionally slowed down to admire the river and recall all the spots where I once caught fish. Several times I almost pulled over to fish them, but I kept reminding myself that there was a specific destination that needed to be fished first. The river is usually crowded, but luckily for me, the weather kept most people at home. The water level was just perfect.
Take it all in
Standing on the riverbank, ready to wade across, I paused for a moment to look around and inhale the cold air, which had a crisp freshness. Thrilled to be here, hoping there would never be a day when a fishing trip didn’t bring a high level of excitement. Today felt like a great day. I could sense it and almost taste it. Feeling the cold water push against my legs stepping into the river, it was time to carefully wade over to my favorite spot.
This particular place consistently yielded fish which made it a good place to start. Confidently, I cast toward the far bank and kept the rod tip steady as the fly drifted naturally. I imagined a fish bending the fly rod long before my first cast, and now I was impatiently waiting for that moment to happen.
Slow to start
I thought this fly would be an immediate fish magnet and keep the fly rod bent all day. My first cast floated through the currents, and nothing happened. I cast again with confidence, knowing a hungry fish was there waiting. Still nothing. Again and again, with no results. Surprised at the lack of fish attention, I nevertheless remained determined to stand behind this knee-deep rock ledge with concrete feet and continue casting.
At last, persistence and patience paid off. Several small rainbows were finally netted and released. Aggravated after realizing I had grabbed only one fly out of the six previously tied the night before, I retied the knot into the hook eye again for insurance purposes. Disappointed the other five flies lay helplessly on my fly-tying bench and were useless at this moment, I was glad one fly somehow made it. That will teach me not to get sidetracked when doing such an important task.
The hunt is on
Trying to creep upstream deliberately to avoid spooking any nearby fish, I saw a dorsal fin break the surface of the eddy’s current against the bankside of a large rock. Moving toward the bank, its tail made a small wake as it swam along the inside foam line between the rock and bank. Chill bumps rose on my cold arms. Would it eat? Was it hungry?
This was a big fish, and it was mine to fool. Human nature says to immediately start chunking flies at it, but experience says to stop, watch, and strategize. Calculating my chances of not spooking it would improve if I could change my casting angle. I began the stalk around. No other thoughts interrupted this intense focus. Every muscle and nerve felt heavy with anticipation, determined to make that first cast count. The hunt was on.
Finding a small set of rocks, I crouched low for concealment. There he was again, his large body interacting with the currents and enveloping the entire pool. My mind told the rest of me, “Not to mess this up!” Self-pressure to perform can strain the senses even when no one is watching. “Make the first cast count.”
The payoff
“Focus on the fish,” I whispered out loud. “Concentrate and lay the fly in the riffles above and let the currents do the rest.”
Confidently, the cast was executed perfectly, and the nymph naturally drifted downstream as planned. The line stopped and I quickly lifted the rod tip, causing the river to explode like an underwater bomb detonating. My fish was hooked. He ran downstream and I waded after him trying not to drown by slipping on the uneven, rocky bottom. I got weak-kneed at his incredible size and agility every time he jumped. It was crucial to stay focused and get beneath this fish if there was any chance of successfully netting him.
Once below him, the fish raced back upstream, launching more acrobatic jumps, each landing with a loud splash. Time seems to stop when an angler hooks a big fish; nothing else is more important. It’s a captivating moment that blocks all other thoughts.
Keep the pressure
Applying steady side pressure from the rod tip started wearing down this titanic rainbow. I could feel the fish beginning to tire but still undulating in the soft current, searching for anything to unsnag the embedded hook. I was beginning to regain control.
Sometimes, during a battle, a fish’s weakness breeds an angler’s overconfidence. I unsnapped the long-handled net from my back and let it dangle for easy access while carefully guiding the fish toward the bank in case I needed to beach it.
Switching rod hands, I searched my fishing vest pocket for the waterproof camera when the rainbow surged again, jumping violently to signal the fight wasn’t over. This explosion was instantaneous and without warning. With one hand tucked inside the vest, the other was left to pull back on the rod to maintain constant pressure.
Trouble
Caught up in the excitement, I yanked the rod straight back and candy-caned the tip as the fish surged again. With a loud snap like a .22-caliber rifle, the rod tip slid down the fly line toward the fish. There I was, standing in the river with a camera and net in one hand, a broken fly rod attached to a trophy rainbow in the other, while standing in thigh-deep water.
“What to do next?” I wondered. Trying to regroup and focus, I was determined to land the fish rather than get mad and upset about breaking a rod. Human error caused the mishap and created a minor speed bump. Not getting mad at myself helped me to think clearly.
With only half a fly rod and no leverage, the only way to successfully land the fish was to beach it on the shallow shoals below. Frustrated, I watched the broken rod tip telescope from the top of the fish like a spear. Praying for a miracle, I began inching the fish downstream. In less than thirty seconds, my emotions shifted from pure excitement to confidence, then to rage, and finally to humility and reverence. This was a great fish and deserved to be unhooked and released.
Emotion takes over
Cautiously wading downstream, I photographed this massive rainbow several times underwater. Every time my arm was underwater to snap a few photos, the fish decided to thrash violently. Finally, swinging the fish around to where it could be netted, he bolted again, breaking the hook off as I quickly slid my net underneath.
My rod tip was left helplessly bouncing in the current. I salvaged it later and crawled over to the bank to let my racing heart take a pit stop after releasing the fish.
After a few deep breaths, I stopped staring at the river and looked up. Even without the leaves, the grizzled, somber hues of winter gray in the hardwood treetops against the mountain backdrop were beautiful. I felt blessed. It was time to head back to the truck and get another fly rod. After all, I was here to catch a fish. And I never turn down a fish willing to bite a fly. All I had to do was find another one. ■
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