Fly Fishing Virginia – Page 2

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.

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.