01-15-2010, 01:12 PM
Being somewhat inspired by Sep's post, here is a little something I wrote. I've submitted it to a few places that take submissions, but have heard nothing back. I know that there are many, many others who are better at writing than I am, so it doesn't bother me.
We’ve all been there. The moment fly fishing becomes part of our being. Perhaps it was our grandfather or father taking us to a secret fishing hole and placing a previously unknown type of fishing rod in our hands. Perhaps it was a friend who introduced us. No matter when, where or who beaconed us to the gate of fly fishing, we all started somewhere.
For me, it was a moment that I will never forget. I never received much tutelage in the art of fishing. There’s a picture somewhere of a grinning little boy standing at the edge of a creek that ran through my grandparents’ farm holding a sunfish at the end of a line. From that moment forward, I had to learn what little I knew about fishing on my own.
Many years later, I found myself working and trying to raise a family. I viewed fishing as a pleasant memory, better left in my youth. I had taken my boys fishing, but never really have had the time to show them what it really was about.
At one point, a close family friend invited me to a “trout weekend”. You know the type: a few guys rent a cabin in the hills, bring some food, lots of beer and fish the entire day. Nights consisted of beer, whatever was cooked and stories of times gone by. For us nine-to-fivers, it was way to get lost for a while.
It was on the second trip that the fly fishing bug infected my waking and dreaming hours. With little more than an ultra-light spinning outfit, a few in-line spinners and a cheap set of rubber hip waders, I worked the stream vigorously. By mid-morning, I wanted to rest and enjoy the surroundings a bit.
A little down river was a man wading up to his waist. Curiously, I watched him survey the contents of an ancient metal box. Selecting a likely candidate, he proceeded to tie a fly to his leader. Once completed, he stripped some line from the reel and began to false cast.
Whether or not one could call him a good caster did not matter to my untrained eye. What mattered were the ease of his motions and the magic of the line in the air. I had known about fly fishing from afar, but to see someone who could do it was a completely different experience. Sitting on that rock on a cool spring morning, the sport hooked me as firmly as this fisherman had hooked his first rainbow on his second cast.
I wanted that. The obvious grace and serenity of fly fishing. I didn’t know it then but, as trite as it sounds, I was looking for that peace, that serenity in my life.
Thus, the gate was opened.
It's not the heat, it's the stupidity.
What manner of jackassery will I be subjected to today?