Short Short Story 1: The Joy of Not Fly Fishing

The fisherman wades upstream. His fly rod—light, willowy, deceptively resilient—arcs under the weight of the line, then straightens. When the timing is right—when the man, rod, and line together find the right harmony of movement—the seemingly delicate wand powers the long line over the water in exquisitely graceful loops and lengths.

At the end of this symphony of movement—legs, pelvis, back, arm, wrist, rod, line, leader—a tiny fly whips through the air. Meticulously crafted of carefully selected feathers, a bit of fur or synthetic fibre, and a strong extra-fine thread wrapping it all onto a minute fishhook, the fly (a #16 parachute Adams) is a miniature work of art in its own right. Cast after cast this tiny durable construction lands upright and floats lightly on the surface of the water just like the adult insect it imitates.

The fly has to float naturally on the water despite being tied onto a long line subject to varying currents. Fish are smart in their own ways. They generally don’t like it if a current pulls the line and drags the fly across the surface. It doesn’t look right. Even seeing that one time, wily fish may refuse subsequent presentations no matter how perfect.

To achieve its natural drift, the man tied the small fly to a foot or so of delicate tippet material only a little larger than a hair, which in turn he had attached to the nine foot leader at the end of the fly line. With each forward cast the loop of the line travels to its end, and the line’s forward trajectory through the air slows and then pauses as the line straightens. From there the movement continues through the leader and tippet which, at the end, turn over and straighten out also. The fly drifts down through the air and settles lightly on the surface of the water. There it floats naturally for a short while according to the vagaries of the currents.

That’s when the fish, if it is there and feeding, will strike. As he wades, the man’s eyes scan the complex waterscapes of the river, finding places where fish hang out—riffles and runs, pools, “feeding lanes” marked by lines of foam, and slower deep waters along undercut banks. Deciding where to place the fly, the fisherman “reads” the currents in relation to the angle of his casts. As needed, he tries to put just the right amount of slack or curve in the line as it settles on the water. When currents do irresistibly pull the line tight, just before it begins to drag the fly through the water, it’s time to lift the line and make another cast.

Just now the fly is in a good, long drift a few feet out from an undercut bank, approaching the end of a log that juts out a bit into the faster current. As the fly begins to swirl around the log, a sudden splash, a flash of yellow-gold. Must be a big brown. He lifts the rod, the line goes tight and starts snaking rapidly down stream. The reel sings. He stumbles down after it, through the resistance of the water, over the slick, round rocks, trying to keep balance and movement going, hoping to keep the right pressure on the line and get to where he can control the fish before it finds a snag or tangle of brush to lose itself in. The big fish takes a sudden turn toward the bank, lifts itself out of the water twisting and lunging. The line goes slack. Gone. Dammit! It’s a visceral feeling—that sudden slackness in the line as a strong fish disconnects and slips free, leaving you to come back to yourself standing there in the river.

Continuing upstream, the next bend angles the river directly into the glowing sun hovering just above the horizon. The long straight run ahead becomes a river of sparkling refracted light lined by the darker firs and shrubs of its shores. Above it the wings of countless insects also catch and reflect the sun’s rays. The evening hatch, visible as myriad points of dancing light, lends depth and motion to the still air. About thirty yards directly ahead a more concentrated towering column of insects undulates. Now coalescing like an amorphous ghostly organism, then almost dispersing like a cloud, it weaves and waves above the river.

This is a magical moment on the river—a gift, a blessing. The fisherman’s intense focus rises from the riffles and ripples and opens to the beauty of creation. To not fish in such moments—that’s one of the reasons we go fishing.