A while back, I planned a day of fishing with a friend and neighbor who had been anxious to catch a trout on his very nice fly rod and reel. I’d sent him to a favorite fly shop, calling the proprietor ahead of time to tell him what type rod and reel my friend had, and what was “missing” from his set up. He left the shop fully rigged, with new breathable waders, a new vest, tippet, more flies....ready to fish

It being the hottest part of summer, though, the generators were running everywhere within 4 hours of us, so we opted for a creek I knew had some nice bass. We met up at his place, threw the rods in, and headed out. Did some catch up visiting on the way, and when we found a spot, we rigged up.

I realized as we were getting ready, that the learning curve for fly fishing is in direct relationship to the amount of time one spends doing so, and who is around to influence the fisherman. I showed my friend about folding the fly line in order to feed it through the guides, after watching him trying to do exactly as I used to try to do: that is, take the leader through the guides without the whole mess backsliding reel-wards the moment you let it go. Now I had tried the leader-fighting method a few times, till a friend said “Let me show you something” and patiently showed me. So here was my first opportunity to “give back”.

Then, though it was really hot, I opted to wear my waders, rolled down to waist-high. (I hate the idea of leeches) My friend did the same, and I got to show him, as another friend had shown me, that there was a cooler way to go.

From a bridge, I spotted a nice sized bass, and concocted a plan to circle around, get beside the bridge supports, and flick a stick bug out in front of it. But before I could get there, my friend had walked on down, flopped his line in the water, and started false-casting. What could I say? I knew I had un-knowingly done the same myself, many times before I even realized that perhaps stealth might perhaps be a good thing. After a bunch of unproductive drifts, snagged flies, and splashing retrievals, I suggested me move on, find some other fish, and come back for these.

I noticed a deeper pocket alongside a riffle, and said “here’s a great place to practice flicking some line out, letting it drift......” and showed him. Snap! A tiny chub latched on to my fly. “These are big fun to play with, if nothing else is biting” I told him.

He soon got the knack of flipping out a little line and leader, and in a while, also caught a tiny chub. I then admitted to my friend that I was a trash fish queen: I’d throw a fly at anything to see if I could elicit a strike. We played with the chubs a while, and then went in search of a deeper hole. At the base of a tree stump was a triangular shaped spot that seemed perfect for a small bass or two. I climbed up on the bank nearby to look, and indeed, a couple of bass-shaped inhabitants showed their forms against the dark bottom. By sighting and pointing where my friend should cast, we got the bass in there chasing the weighted nymph we were casting, but got no strikes. But the best part of the day was that he learned to pick up his line and flip it back out, without false casting.

Soft hackles had been a mystery to me for the first seven months I fly fished. Oh, once in a great while I’d tie one on, and by accident, some juvenile trout would mistake it for a bug, but the whole method, though I under stood the concept, was a flop for me.

Then, one day, in knee deep water with a deeper pocket out in front of me, alongside a faster riffle, I clearly saw trout rising to subsurface insects. I chose a soft hackle the color of the river bottom. Casting it out in front of me, I let it drift. remembering the words of a man who had been tying soft hackles at a fly fishing club meeting. He’d said to let them dead drift, and let them swing downstream. He pointed out that too many time the angler would not let the fly stay at the end of the drift long enough to produce the “rising” effect.

When my beaded soft hackle reached the end of the drift, I watched the end of my fly line, and willed myself to leave it alone. Six or seven seconds later, the end of the fly line rushed away from me, and I had the delayed presence of mind to set my hook. The mystery was solved! I spent the rest of the afternoon trying different patterns, stopping my rod tip at different positions on the drift, lengthening my leader, going to finer tippet.....ending up with fifteen feet of leader on a seven and a half foot rod.....and caught trout after trout on soft hackles. I went home that evening elated and satisfied. I’d caught larger fish in the course of the day on my old reliable bead head pheasant tails, but the thrill of learning a new skill far outweighed those fish.

Wading back, I stopped to snap a few photos of the railroad trestle that spans the Caney Fork river near the Happy Hollow access. It is an imposing, picturesque structure, and was used as back drop for an important scene in the movie “The Green Mile”. My fishing buddy of the day, Rusty, was working his way to shore far ahead of me, while I snapped pictures and cast into the deepening water. (Generation had started) Rusty was looking at his watch and pacing the bank by the time I waded the last stretch of current. But I was in heaven, enjoying the railroad trestle, enjoying the memory of the soft hackle biting trout. It was all about the day, and the magical time on the water.

Lately I find myself looking over my fly boxes for something I haven’t fished. Instead of using a fly I know has worked well in a certain type of water or whatever, I select a yet-untried one. That’s part of the challenge. Get it wet, play with it. Wiggle it. Sink it. Strip it. Let it rise, let it drift, let it alone, move it. Longer tippet. Shorter leader. Am I catching more fish? Probably not, but there are new things for me to try. More questions to ask.

The other night I got to spend a few hours with two favorite friends, a married couple for whom I pet-sit, and with whom I share many laughs over practical jokes we fabricate to play on each other. They enjoy fly fishing, but have not had much time to get out, and felt they were rusty at casting. I went out in the pasture with them, with an armload of different rods, and gave informal casting lessons. Not that my casting is all that great, but I’ve had a lot of practice lately, and a lot of help from some very experienced fishermen. We worked on their casting strokes, handling line, and shared a lot of wonderful and funny moments. I got to pass along to someone else the skills I was still learning. That was magic.

It’s about fish, yes. But it’s also about the feel of a good rod. And a line that is the right match for a good rod. And it’s about the self-satisfaction of doing well at just one thing at a time. Isn’t life grand with a fly rod in hand?

Juni ReadHead Fisher