Spiritual False Cast

Savage River

You can make yourself crazy over casting. You can worry about it so much it ruins your fun. Fly fishing becomes some kind of angst ridden battle with your demons. If you’re not careful you can go from trying to get more accuracy and distance to your cast to wondering why your high school gym teacher seemed to have it out for you. And the more you try, the worse you get. There’s an old baseball cliché that seems to apply to casting: don’t try harder, try easier.

In baseball, the epitome of trying easier has got to be the Nationals’ 3rd baseman Anthony Rendon. He just goes out there and hits and fields and runs the bases. He looks like he’s having fun and he seems like he knows he’s got it good. Playing baseball is a pretty good way to make a living, even if the season is 162 games long. Everything about Rendon’s approach to the game seems to say that he knows there are people out there who have jobs that require them to work long hours and do sometimes dangerous work, or to sit in a beige box all day to feed their family and that he gets to play baseball.

Same with casting, you’re on a river, casting a fly. It’s pretty. Even if your boss is a jerk, the odds are that he’s not going to be able to find you here in the middle of the stream and give you a hard time. You are as far away from your problems as you can get. Unless your problem is that you can’t seem to catch a fish. Then, being in the middle of a stream with a fly rod and failing can begin to look like a big fat metaphor for every other problem in your life.

If you wanted fish so badly you could cast a spinner, or a worm, or you could just go buy a fish at the store. You want to catch a fish on a fly because it is so &*^% elegant! Why isn’t the fly going where I want it to go? Don’t’ break your wrist, keep the rod tip on a plane, keep all these actions together and cast. No! Not into that tree! What is wrong with you?! This is supposed to be fun, why isn’t this fun?

On July 29, 2014 during a game with the Marlins, Anthony Rendon yawned during an at bat. Seriously, between pitches he let out this big, lazy day yawn. That is not a guy who is struggling to get out of his head. That’s a guy at one with the universe; that is Buddha in a Nats uniform. To be that good and to appear not to care? That’s a perfect loop heading out over the cosmic stream of consciousness to land along the log of enlightenment to drift drag free over the platonic ideal of a trout that may not really be there. (Author’s Note: this metaphor has gotten away from me and is currently scuttling around the office baseboards; an exterminator has been called).

I struggle for that inner peace; I want it desperately and if I don’t get it, I demand to speak with the manager! You see my problem, I’m an American through and through and as such, I see journeys of self-discovery as transactional: “One inner peace, please.”

When you start out, there are so many variables. There are so many it’s impossible to figure out which ones matter and which ones don’t. There are variables that you don’t even know about. There are variables you accidentally change while trying to change other variables. That’s true when you first start out life and when you first start out fly fishing. When you first start angling, catching a fish seems like an accident. It’s like that moment in Bull Durham when Nuke Laloosh throws a perfect pitch and then asks himself, “God, that was beautiful. What’d I do?”

Try easier, that’s the key. Just put it out there and the cast is what it is. Accept that you are trying to do an impossible thing: you want your fly to drift as if it is not attached to your fly line, but it is attached. Every time you go out, you get a little better, but you are getting better at what is an unattainable ideal. Put aside the ego, put aside the drunken monkey chattering in your head; be like the trout in the current, waiting for what the river brings him. Take what the water gives you and be happy with it.

Who cares if I catch the trout? Not the trout and certainly not Antony Rendon. I hope someday that I won’t care either.

I Stink Less

mist

I still suck at fly fishing, but I suck less. I still have a long way to go, but I’m getting there. I’m getting traction in a way that I began to fear would never happen. There are all these layers to fly fishing and it is hard to jump levels. First you have to get your fly in the water and get a drift before you can hook a fish. Then you have to learn how to hook it, then how to fight it, then how to land it, then how to handle it. None of it came easy to me, probably because I never went through a bait/spin fishing phase; in fact, I’m not entirely sure the difference between bait and spin fishing, I assume they use the same kind of rods, just the lure or bait is different?

I am a slow learner and don’t take instruction well. I need to fail at something, go and brood about it and come back. What I lack in intelligence and natural ability I make up for in stubbornness and a willingness to blow off work. The way I learn is to fail, get slightly better, plateau at that level for a long time, and then claw my way up to another plateau. I guess that’s how everyone learns, but I take years to work my way up to plateaus that some people figure out in an afternoon. Like I said, I’m a slow learner.

I didn’t suck at all of it equally. I got the idea of reading the water first. I think it’s because it’s a nerdy skill that requires no physical prowess. It just requires being a brooding lump staring at the water with a dumb look on your face. Reading the water made sense to me. Because I was able to read the water, at least a little bit, I started getting in to fish, but I missed a lot of strikes and lost a lot of fish. Like an embarrassing amount of fish. Give a man a fish and he eats for one day, but teach a man to fish and he very well might starve to death before he actually lands one.

But like I said, I suck less these days. Another penny has dropped and I feel a lot more at ease out there. Now, when I’m screwing up, I usually know what I’m doing wrong. When I first started, I knew I had to work on all of it, but had no idea what all of it entailed. Now I understand what I need to work on to improve.

The latest penny to drop was on fish hooking and fighting. I was losing a lot of fish, and I was losing every good size fish. I was fighting them too long and I was not keeping enough pressure on the fish. Perversely, I got it in my head that I was losing fish because I was fighting them too hard, so every time I lost a fish, I would fight the next one even more gingerly. If I hadn’t reversed this trend, but this time next year, I would have been trying to land fish by way of sly looks and innuendo.

My problem stemmed from something I heard that I misinterpreted. I think that happens to a lot of beginners: someone with experience says something and the beginner takes the exact wrong lesson from the advice. For me it was this piece of instruction: “keep your rod tip up.” I was fighting a fish and the guide kept telling me to keep my rod tip up: I kept letting out line until my rod tip was pointing straight up, no tension on the line meant that the rod tip pointed straight up, right?

What I should have been doing, of course, was keeping my rod butt section up, so that the rod forms a nice question mark shape, which lets the tip do a lot of the fish fighting. Keep your rod tip up is shorthand for a bunch of stuff that a beginner just doesn’t know. It’s a loaded phrase that assumes that the listener has some understanding of the underlying principles at work. Like I said, I’m a slow learner so I kind of slowly had to figure it out: keeping my rod tip up wasn’t working, but the people who said it to me clearly knew a lot about fishing, so I was obviously not understanding a key point.

I’d like to say that I figured it all out and it came to me as an epiphany, but that’s not true. Finally, the right guide gave me the right piece of advice. He told me to keep my rod bent like a question mark and I told him that then my rod tip wouldn’t be up and he had this “oh, you’re a moron” look on his face that didn’t so much as drop the penny as fling it from the top of the Empire State Building onto my head.

That was the latest piece to fall in to place. Now, it’s coming together. I’m landing more and bigger fish. I still have a long way to go, but I understand now what I need to do and assuming I can live to be 170, I might be a good fly fisher someday, but today I suck less.

Two Guys and a River

car

I’m a huge fan of the 2 Guys and a River podcast (www.2guysandariver.com). I download it every week and I often listen to it as soon as it’s done downloading; I’ll try to save it for later, but I’m not much for delayed gratification. My wife loves it as well. A couple of times, I made comments on their website that they then read on the air as part of their “Great Stuff From Our Listeners” segment. Once that happened once, I spent way too much time during the work day to craft posts on their site with the aim of getting it read and now I’m writing this blog post instead of writing this proposal I’m supposed to be working on for my actual job. But I digress.

If you don’t know it, the podcast is two guys talking about fly fishing. The hosts are Dave Goetz and Steve Mathewson who (as they say in the introduction) “are two lifelong friends, writers, and very average fly fishermen who love fly fishing the great rivers.” Some episodes are about fly fishing techniques and others are about the emotional aspects of fly fishing. A lot of their advice on technique is somewhat basic, even for me, but advice on how to fish isn’t really their appeal. What I like about the podcast is how honest it is. What comes through in the podcast is how much they love fly fishing, how much they enjoy their friendship and that they are not embarrassed to admit to both of those things. A lot of their podcasts don’t even focus on the how of fishing, but more the why.

They talk openly about what they get emotionally and spiritually from fly fishing and they come at it with a definite point of view. Being from the heartland, they express that definite point of view gently and without judgement of how others may see things. They’re able to pull off talking about the ‘why’ of fishing without being pretentious. It’s a neat trick and they are able to do it because they come at it openly. Their worldview is earnest, spiritual and western and they inspired me to start this blog even though I am decidedly eastern, cynical and secular.

The show is corny and a little cheesy in the best meaning of the words: the guys razz each other with dad jokes and talk in gee whiz wonder at the magnificence of creation in what can only be described (at least by me) as infectious. One of my favorite episodes features the two of them reading passages of A River Runs Through It and discussing what it means to them. If I had any readers, they would recall that I stated I don’t like the movie, but I do find the book achingly beautiful.

For Steve and Dave, fly fishing is about trout. If your only understanding of fly fishing only came from listening to their podcasts, you’d be forgiven for thinking that no one had ever caught a bass, bluegill, catfish, tarpon or carp on a fly rod. The few times they mention another species you can almost picture them wincing as they manage to get the word out: smallmouth. They are purists and have defined the sport in a way that works for them. They are unapologetically western in their outlook towards fly fishing and life. I am similarly unapologetically eastern in my attitude towards fly fishing and life.

While I love fishing for trout, I also love catching smallmouth bass on a fly rod and I love scrubby east coast streams where it’s a grab bag of all kinds of fish. I have this ratty little stream not far from my house in the city that I like to fish and (this is absolutely true) there has recently been a series of articles in the local paper about how a gang has been using the area to commit murders and dump bodies in the stream. There was a picture in the article of two investigators standing near the stream right where I had stand when I fish it. Fly fishing in a street gang’s killing ground is pretty far from 2 Guys and a River, or A River Runs Through It, but let me tell you, a couple of dumped bodies really cuts down on the fishing pressure. A few high profile trials and the next thing you know, you’ve got the stream to yourself.

For me, I like catching wild fish and where I live in the mid-Atlantic, that means I can’t be too picky about species. Starting in February or March, there are wild brook trout that I can fish for in the mountains of Virginia and Maryland. By late May, smallmouth bass and bluegill are in the mix in the Shenandoah river system. For a couple of months, you can fish for either bass in the valley, or broookies in the mountains (and on one or two glorious days, you can do a little of both: brookies in the morning and smallies in the afternoon).

But certainly by July, I don’t feel comfortable fishing for brookies. The water temp around here increases and the water levels drop, I worry that fishing for them beats them up too much and will kill them. So if I’m going to fish locally in July and August for wild fish, that means smallies. I could fish eight times a year for trout or fifty times a year for whatever’s in the mix. If I can get away for a long weekend, there are a couple of tailwaters not too far away with wild trout year round, but that’s what I consider “special occasion” fishing. There’s something about a stream you can hit on your way home from work, or right when you realize it’s Sunday afternoon and you don’t have anything scheduled. There’s special occasion and there’s grab your rod and go fishing and I love both.

I have a friend who’s a very good fly fisher who is also a purist (he is also a very good person, honest and hard-working). He considers brookies to be “rat” fish and has literally turned up his nose at the idea of going fishing for them with me (he honest to God did this kind of nose flick, eye roll thing). He’s a born and bred western fly fisher and as I have (hopefully) good-naturedly told him, I find western fly fishers to be some of the most pretentious people on earth.

I’m what you’d call a pan-purist; when I’m fishing for wild trout in Maryland, Virginia, or Tennessee, I think that this is the best fishing experience there is and anyone who doesn’t agree is wrong. Then I’ll fish a small stream for brookies in the Shenandoah National Park and realize that this is the only way to fly fish, then I’ll float the South Fork of the Shenadoah swinging streamers for smallies on 60 fish days and think that this is the only way to fly fish. And I’m 100% correct in each instance.

Long story short, check out 2 Guys and a River, it’s a great podcast.

I Like Orvis

ORVIS

I like Orvis. Specifically, I like Orvis rods and I like Orvis waders. I’m not a huge fan of the quality of the flies in their shops and I don’t like their boots because they don’t make them in my size. But I like their fly rods, a lot, and I like the company. I like Tom Rosenbauer’s books and his podcast (although, he is terrible and I mean terrible, at interviewing someone. His interview of John Gierach was like awkward silence and strained politeness had a baby and then put that baby in a boarding school for 18 years, didn’t visit him and then had the kid over for Thanksgiving in his senior year where he told them he wasn’t going to college so he could pursue a career as an erotic mime. It was awkward is my point ). I also like that they have a lot of good instructional videos and I like that they offer free classes to get you started. Orvis creates new fly fishers, including me.

I really like their rods and reels. The Clearwater rod and reel is a perfectly good fly rod at a really good price. Add to the fact that they have a 25 year warranty and there really isn’t anything not to like about the Clearwater. Plus if you take their free intro to fly fishing class, Orvis will give you a coupon for some pretty steep discounts on a rod and reel set. Like I said, I like Orvis.

One of the reasons I like them so much is because western fly fishers make a point of not liking Orvis. I think western fly fishers are some of the most pretentious people on earth, from turning their nose up to brookies (like a cutty is any harder to catch) to calling Orvis Whorevis for some stupid reason, to all dressing in the same uniform. Western fly fishers would make a beret wearing freshman philosophy major studying abroad in Paris say “dude, take it down a notch, you’re embarrassing yourself.”

Hipster fly fishers don’t like Orvis for the same reason that hipsters everywhere don’t like something: they’ve been told not to like it by someone they desperately want to be. It’s the Single White Female method of getting a personality: here’s your beard, here’s your tattoo that you totally got from this old black guy in the city and not at the mall, here’s your PBR and here’s your Sage.

I was talking to a guide from Montana about fly rods and he told me that he doesn’t really care about rods. In his opinion, they’re all about the same and he could catch fish on “tippet nailed to a broomstick.” I bet a lot of guides feel that way when no one is looking. Find a rod you like, fish with it and get on with your life.

I’m not sure what it is about fly fishing and fly fishers that make us make such a big goddamned deal out of everything. It seems like it’s a phase you have to work your way through. I like Orvis because there’s a shop near my house and the fly fishing manager there is a good guy, plus they make a quality product and back it up with an outstanding warranty. You like Scott because of the quality and ascetics of their rods, good for you. But this whole idea that it’s not enough that you like brand X, but you have to hate brand Y? It’s weird.

Anyway, I like Orvis.

orvis

Millie Girl

Millie

Millie Girl

I miss Millie. Millie was a dog, just a dog, just our dog. It’s been over a year and it is shocking to me how much I miss that dog, like it’s getting ridiculous. She was about 15 when we had to put her down, she had cancer and was already arthritic and on a bunch of pain meds. It was time. Neither of us doubted that it was time, but I miss her. I cried like a little kid, snot running down my nose, I can still feel her fur in my face as I cried and cried. I’m crying now.

Every once in a while, we still find ourselves doing something for the first time without Millie, the first trip to a park, or the first walk down a particular trail without her. We scattered her ashes in a few places special to all of us: in the headwaters of the Savage River (the Savage River Lodge was her favorite place, she’d be absolutely trembling with happiness when we got out of the car); the Shenandoah National Park, and a special park she loved (the park eventually banned dogs and we reached out to see if there was a compromise, maybe set it up so that people with dogs could pay dues, but they didn’t even respond, so anyway, good luck finding her ashes guys).

Millie had a complicated relationship with water. She was part chow, part Labrador retriever. Water was appealing to her, but when she got to it, she wasn’t quite sure what to do with it; kind of like me and women’s bodies when I was younger. Basically, Millie’s favorite thing to do was to stand in a stream up to her chest and look at minnows, it’s not that far from wade fishing and on some days we both caught the same number of fish. Before my wife was fly fishing, we would take Millie with us and they’d hang out on the bank while I flogged the water. A couple of times I caught a fish and showed it to Millie and she was duly impressed, like I had pulled off a magic trick.

We’re talking about getting another dog and I know that when we do, I’ll love that dog too, but it’s still hard to fathom loving any dog as much as I loved Millie. I’d feel like I was cheating on Millie with the new dog. I’m sure it would be weird doing things with the new dog for the first time that we did with Millie, the first trip to the Savage, the first hike in the Shenandoah Park, the first fish. Anyway, I miss that dog.

First Fish

That’s a picture of the first fish I ever caught on a fly rod. It was Labor Day Weekend 2013 on the Savage River in western Maryland.

Poor little guy.

This blog is called First Fish. First Fish is the first fish you catch on your day out. To me, it’s the most important fish on any fly fishing trip. I don’t care if it’s a 4” dink as long as it’s a fish that I got to hold and release not by accident, but by intent. It’s what I call the “Oh, Thank God” fish; no matter what else happens, I’m not skunked. I remember the first time I fished the Yellow Breeches in Pennsylvania with a friend who is an accomplished fly fisher, I hooked into a brown first thing (before he caught a fish, not that it mattered (it totally did)); as I was landing the fish, I regaled him with my theory of First Fish. Before I could net it, the brown popped off and I didn’t catch another fish that day. Never count your First Fish until it’s netted and released. Pride goeth before the long distance release.

I had never been a fisher as a kid. I liked the idea of being a fisher, it seemed like the kind of thing that could make a boring person more interesting and people would always know what to get you for gifts: shirts with pictures of fish, funny coffee mugs with sayings about the worst day fishing is still better than the best day working, little knickknacks for your desk, that kind of thing. When you’re a kid growing up in the boring burbs, you yearn to be something, either an urban sophisticate or a crusty outdoorsman, just something. All of us kids in our family played with rusticism and urbanism at one time or another. We’d go to our grandparents’ house (bonafied country folk) and say things like “yup” and call dogs “dawgs”, then later in life we’d go to the city with our money tucked in our socks and try not to look like what we were. For the record, I’m the crazy city guy, one sister and one brother are both pretty country and another sister seems to kind of not worry about it and lives her life (weird, I know).

So, anyway, I went out fishing as a kid once in a while using some conventional gear we had around the house, but each time after a few minutes (and I mean minutes) I’d always have the same thought: so we just sit here and look at that bobber? So I never quite go the fishing bug. I did this more than once, kind of a lot actually. I had friends who liked fishing and I’d go with them. Man, I must have been a pain in the ass.

Years later, my wife and I had started going to the Savage River Lodge in western Maryland. It had become one of our favorite places, partly because it was dog friendly and only about a 3 hour drive from our home in the city. We’d been going there for a couple times a year for a few years and each time I noticed this offer on their website for a half day lesson on fly fishing. Finally, I decided to try it. I’m not sure why, probably because I figured I still needed something a little quirky to make me interesting. And no, I’m not one of those people who saw A River Runs Through It and had to try fly fishing (last year, I saw the first half of the movie and the cable went out and I was relieved, it’s not a very good movie).

Anyway, I went out with a guide who put me in the lodge’s waders and too small wading boots and handed me a fly rod. The guide was great, a natural teacher and I was lucky he was the first guide I fished with. He’s out of the guiding business, but I drop him a line once in a while to check in. I’m kind of hoping he gives up on real life and goes back to being a trout bum to help shepherd the middle aged through their crises and on to senility.

We fished nymphs under his direction and I got a hookup, not the little guy in that picture, but a not bad fish. I was as surprised as the fish and looked to the guide, “uh, what do I do?” He yelled some jargon at me as the fish thrashed in the water. I remember one distinct phrase: “don’t let him horse ya!” and I remember that I didn’t know what any of that that meant. Long story short, that fish broke off, but I caught the above fish and I think one other that day.

Something about it all clicked. I don’t mean I suddenly understood the key concepts of fly fishing and was a born natural; no, I sucked then and I suck now (but I suck a little less now than I did then). When I say it clicked, I mean I got the appeal of fly fishing; I liked standing in the stream, which seemed a little reckless and I liked that you were trying to do a bunch of different things at once. I liked that it was kind of weird. As soon as I started fly fishing, understanding it and getting better at it became very important to me and so too did catching that first fish of every trip. I desperately wanted (and still want) to be a skilled fly fisher.

Poor little guy.