Sometimes there is nothing you can do. Sometimes you hook fish and sometimes you do not.
I stepped from the fresh snow into the river and plopped my fly into the frigid water. The dry clump of black and blue fibers sprang into a dance of delicate, tantalizing movements. I worked out my line and lifted my gaze to take in the view—a fresh morning with a dusting of snow and low hanging fog quietly lifting as the sun began to radiate above the canyon walls.
This is where Red said it was going to happen, I thought. As I sent my fly out into the run, I believed him. The soft inside of the run was weedy and my fly extracted rich green plant life from the river. I cleaned it off and laid out another cast. As my fly swam through the run I stayed connected to the tension in my line, the beautiful snow covered hills, and the feeling of the rocks under my feet. The swing ended. My fly stopped moving. It was time to recast. I started to strip when I felt my fly grab some weeds. So, I lifted up my rod and the weeds pulled back. Wait. What? Then my reel starting singing and weight transferred through the line and rod into my hands. Fish on! I could lie and say how amazing the fight was, how the fish thrashed, bucked, jumped and ran. But honestly, after a few rolls and splashes I quickly landed an average fish for this river system. Still, I was pumped. I was bringing home fresh fish for the family.
It was not long before the seductive battle dance of my fly enticed a second steelhead from its lie. A delicate weight detected by the tightening of my line. The fly carried softly in the mouth of a steelhead, like a game fowl in the mouth of a well-trained retriever. Then, instantly my line was ripping off the water, momentarily splitting through the silent mumble of the river, and my fly went sailing over my head. I heard the words before they penetrated the serene surrounding. “Idiot! What are you doing?” I knew I had done it and I was letting myself know it, as well as the cows, ducks, and any other life forms around to hear me. “You totally yarded that fish!” The negativity penetrated quick and deep, but I rallied with the Believe River attitude. I didn’t stick him. Maybe I can get him to come back? So I took three big steps upriver and began to cast again. Four casts then my line came tight. This time it was not soft or gentle. This take was aggressive like the steelhead was pissed off and he wanted me to know that the fly on the end of my line was his. I heard the clicking of my reel and I lifted my rod thinking, Oh yeah, baby. I got you this time! As quickly as this thought entered my mind, reality poked me in the eye. My line lay slack and lifeless in the water. I closed my eyes and dropped my head. Foiled again. I half-heartedly worked through the rest of the run and then reeled in and headed up the river.
I missed yet another fish in a beautiful bouldery run and turned to walk back down river, chuckling to myself. What a great day. Active fish, beautiful creation and good weather. But no matter how hard I tried, my mind kept going back to the fish I had missed earlier. I stepped off the train tracks onto a muddy cow trail and decided to try again. The marrow in my bones told me to keep fishing black and blue, but experience told me, “You need to change flies.” I stood on the bank, looking at the run where I had missed two fish earlier, and changed flies. I started in the same spot, working out two feet of line at a time, as I did earlier in the day. Soon I was in the groove, feeling the swing, anticipating the tug. Swing, step, cast. Swing, step, cast. Every cast I believed, this is the one. But nothing happened. I laid out another cast and let my fly swing and do it’s war dance one more time. My line stopped moving. I am at the soft inside. So I waited because I knew my fly was still moving slowly across where I believed a fish to be. Then my reel exploded in song. The sound ignited a rush of adrenalin and thoughts raced through my mind. It worked. I knew you were there! Laughter, pride, relief. Don’t screw this up. I waited and my reel screamed louder. Now is the time, I thought. I lifted my rod, feeling the weight of a fish. Feeling victorious. The adrenalin-induced acuity sent a message to my brain. I refused to believe it. My line is not slack. Reel, reel, reel faster. My line is not slack. Then reality punched me in the gut and I doubled over.
Staring into the clear water, I was transfixed, confused by the moment. My body warmed as the peek-a-boo sun rays landed on my back. Nothing I could do, I tried to comfort myself. It just didn’t stick…. I checked the hook again and then flipped my fly back into the river. Man, that was a good fish.