Too Hot to Fish

This is not a blog about weather. Nor is it a blog about how amazingly seductive I look in chest waders, a fly vest and baseball cap. It's not about menopause either, though I'm sure that blog is not far away. This blog is about how I get too hot to fish. By too hot I mean intense in a passionate sort of way. I get the same way in the canoe for about the first mile I just wanna go. I want to burn up the water. I'm like letting an Irish Setter off the leash. And I admit I'm a little hot in the competitive sort of way.

Tonight was a prime example of too hot and I caught myself at it....twice or maybe three times. It had clouded over and the weather radar on the home computer had a big blue, green and yellow blob closing in on the fishing grounds. We decided to chance it and try to fish ahead of the rain. We ate quickly, left dishes on the table and food out, changed clothes, threw fly fishing gear into the van and took off. Mike was doing what he does best behind the wheel of the van - driving below the speed limit. "We're going fishing tonight, right?" I asked. 

At the river we slid into our waders. I had trouble with my neoprene booties fitting into my wading shoes properly and spent what I felt was too much time putting them off and on. Finally they felt acceptable and I pulled the straps of my waders over my shoulder, for a split second I thought I had them on backwards because a strap was twisted. I grabbed my rod without bothering to line it and we headed for the water. 

I opted for an olive dun instead of my usual elk hair caddis, tied it on and waded in. The second I released my fly I knew I was too hot to fish. My shoulders were up around my ears and my fly line snapped with each false cast. Zip. Zap. Thwap. Thunk. My fly was over here and then over there and oOOOH was that a fish rise by that bank? I better rush down there to fish. I was a disaster. I moved too fast. I cast too much. I fished like a mad woman. After about 20 minutes I had a fish hop on my fly and spit it. That's when I slowed down and actually looked like a fly fisherman. I had a fish and I worked it. My concentration focused on one fish in one spot and I became zen.

I didn't catch that fish. He rose to the fly  on several occasions but spit it each time. I gave up the hole and moved on - slowly and carefully now. I moved down stream from Mike to the place I caught a nice trout last year. I'd chosen my little 6 ft 3 wt rod. I hadn't fished with this one much, prefering the custom 9ft 6wt that Mike had made for me for a wedding present. I knew that rod, knew what it could do and how it would cast and what it took to put a dry fly here or there with it. But on the last few trips I'd taken the little rod. I wanted to see what a fish felt like on something so much smaller. Tonight, the little rod and I hit a groove. We were finally getting along. My false casts made pretty arches above my head. Roll casts were actually looking like roll casts with the fly snapping out and landing gently on the water. I found I could do a side arm cast and practiced that for a while impressing even myself. Then, out of the zen of the moment, Forbes laughed. He laughed that, I got a fish laugh and my casting went to hell. 

I asked what he was using. Nothing. I asked again. "Wow, it's a nice fish" he laughed, "should I keep it?" 

"Yeah, keep it. What ARE you using?" I yelled. Wet fly, caddis larva. DUH. God I hate fishing wet flies. I think that fishing wet flies is akin to using bait and make a lot of noise about it on the river as I tie dry fly after dry fly onto my line. (I think at this time I should say I am a two dollars and twenty-five cents down because I won't use a wet fly) I fish further down the river out of site of Mike. It starts to rain. I whip the water to a froth. I catch trees. I catch myself. I get wind knots and get hung up on the end of my rod. Once again, I am too hot to fish. This time it does not go away. I pick a bouquet of high-bush cranberry flower and leap frog back up the river from Mike because I saw a trout jump up there.

Back in the river I loose a fly in the shrubs, have to rebuild my line and about the time Mike comes to see how I am doing and if I'm ready to be done fishing I hang up in the big pine that stretches out over the river. My fly dangles above the river and my line is fouled right at the leader. What can I do but snap it off. Still, there is that fly dangling out there. I hand my rod to Mike and start for the fly hoping the hole isn't deeper than my waders. I manage a precarious grab and turn smugly back to the shore. I'm done for this trip. Seventy five cents rattles in my pants pocket. I had said to Mike before we left that he should just take it then so I would have to carry the weight.

The rain comes down and the air is cool. Mosquitoes fly in clouds around our heads. I shiver as we walk to the car. I think. Next time. Next time I will just stand in the river for 10 minutes when I first get there. I won't line my rod at the car or on the bank. I will wade in and just cool down before that first cast. And if Mike catches a trout before me. I will simply wade back to where he is, congratulate him, knock him over in the water and go sit on the bank while we both cool off.

Here's to fishing. 

Peace, 

Karen