Fly Fishing? What a Rush!

"You just have to give it a go," said the good Doctor.

"I don't understand why it's necessary to go through all that trouble, gear, fly selection, and casting to nab a trout?" I asked. "How much money have you dumped into this? Why work so hard, and spend that much when I can catch my limit using a spinner and still have time for a barley pop?"

"You have the grace of a drunken elephant, and the mentality of a dullard."

"Perhaps true on all accounts, but I'll be eating trout tonight... not trail mix, good Doctor."

The Doctor has engaged in the art of fly fishing the past several years, and I must say it is an art. His transition had not been easy by any shape or form. The toil of the pursuit, the frustration of so many near misses, the panic of selecting the "right fly," and the exultant triumph of hooking that first fish is something he has shared time and time again.

It took the good Doctor nearly a year to land his first fish via the fly. The man had earned his stripes. To hear him tell, or perhaps preach... the lure of coaxing a trout to surface, to attack his fly, the mood of the water. I questioned, who was really catching who? Be it the grace, the art, the science? Regardless, the Doctor had drank the proverbial "Kool-Aid" and was hooked. He wished to bestow this sweet beverage and appreciation my way.

Years before, it was I who took him on one of his first trout outings. If I'd only known what that would do to the poor fellow. Perhaps I'd have offered to play cards instead! No, no, no. I wouldn't have dreamed such a thing. Being that the good Doctor was the one who asked if I'd take him fishing for trout, and he being a Minnesotan, I took the offer most seriously.

That particular evening, I took him along a sweet stretch of the Rush River. I'm not positive either of us knew what a "fly" was, outside of the one I swatted at while driving my old white, Ford pick-up. Surely I did not. I'd tried fly fishing once upon a time with the Angry Dane, and all we caught after an entire afternoon along the Willow were mosquito bites, tree branches, a hole in my wader boots, and irritation with each other.

The afternoon sun was approaching prime evening hours. The sun slipped behind the clouds giving us cooler breezes, and cooperative late May temperatures. I'd decided to take us just down the highway bridge, slip along the shack road, and enter off the park bridge. The spring leaves were in full splendor, and the fresh smell of earth, water, and new life came over us as we arrived.

Upon donning our waders, I gave him my best spinning rod and reel. That six and half foot beauty had pulled in many a brown, and innumerable large mouths. I also gave him a collection of spinners, any of which would fool a trout. I did not however, offer any advice as to color. "Go smaller, as long as you can get some distance," was my advice.

We slid down the embankment into the cool waters of the Rush, and made our way to the east bank. I'd decided it best to work our way north into the numerous pools. This would provide good practice for the Doctor, and I may be able to offer a pearl of wisdom or two. I'd pulled many a trout out of any number of these pools, and wanted him to be successful. I also knew that it was a good warm-up for the main attraction.

The big browns would be rising and hungry at dusk. If we timed it right, the Doctor could land a few smelt, and I'd be gunning for a bruiser in the dark.

After negotiating some low hanging trees and brush, the Rush opens into nice calm channel offering the angler ample opportunity to dial-in his or her casting. Being as still as a pond does not bode well for finding a hungry trout, but the good Doctor spent some time testing has casting arm. He was able to place his spinner efficiently.

We slowly made our way up to a place where the channel narrows, and the current runs swifter. "Put her on the leeward side of that break," I offered. Surely and with great ceremony, the good Doctor cast just above break, and steadily retrieved his #2 orange panther fox. Not 20 feet into the retrieve did his line go taught, as we saw the flash of belly in the rapids ahead. The brown hit hard and ran towards the entangled bank. "Pull him back steady and work him towards me!"

The Doctor played the fish like a seasoned veteran, and all too quickly it was landed. "Beautiful fish! I'm sure there are a few more sitting along this stretch. Would you like to work it awhile?" I said.

"Sounds great!" the Doctor replied. "I think I can handle a few more. How many have you landed?"

"I've just been enjoying the show. Think I'll work on ahead. Good luck," I said.

"Luck? Who needs luck?"

With that I left the good doctor, and made my way to the east shore, and continued north. I looked back at one point to see the kind sir throwing his lure to the far bank, and missing the precarious branches above by a hair.

There's something about a river. It's many moods, colors, sounds, and smells bring much joy to the angler. Many an hour can by whiled away just enjoying nature's show. That evening though, I'd other plans... I had a bruiser on my mind. I wanted to show the good doctor just what kind of monsters we had in this illustrious state, and knew just the pool to try.

I made my way upstream quite a distance, as much to find the pool as to give the doctor space. The evening grew, and the sound of crickets were all about. I dare say there was the iridescent glow of a fire fly or two. A bit early in the season I thought. The crescent moon was rising along the south east horizon, and the first stars were making the debut when I reached the spot.

Now, this hole was well known for holding big browns, but legend stated they only bit at night. With daylight slipping away, I threw spinners to see if anybody was hungry for an appetizer. To be honest, these were my first casts of the outing. It just felt good to be casting amongst the symphony of insects and evening.

When I could no longer see my line, I swapped my spinner to my secret weapon... the smallest chartreuse rapala I could find. Those large browns would sense or hear the slap of the balsa on the water, and with my irregular jerks entice them to enjoy an easy meal. Trouble being, I could no longer see my line or lure. It was all about hearing and feeling the bite.

This is where I lost myself. The minutes passed quickly, and before long the night sky showed in all its mystery. It could have been raining comets for all I knew. I was so intent on landing a big one I lost track of the time.

Most trout anglers know that you retire to the chosen spot at your leisure when finished. This is a time to relax, reflect, enjoy a beverage and just be. You patiently await your party and debrief on the day's action. This is information I failed to relay to the good Doctor.

It must have been close to 11:00, and I'd yet to have had any success. In the midst of a returned cast I heard a furtive call. "Helloooo!"

I answered, reluctantly packed up, and started back... empty. The good Doctor was not pleased. "Where the hell have you been? I've been looking all over this river thinking you drowned, broke a leg, or who knows what. It's almost 11:30!"

"Perfect time to nab a big brown," I replied. "I'd no idea you missed me that much."

The string of profanity the good doctor directed my way was an impressive tapestry that had a good weave. With the brunt of his displeasure voiced, we laughed and made our way back to the truck. At that point we debriefed, shared a beverage, and made our way home. It was the beginning of a practice to be repeated over and over.

Fast forward a number of years. It was now my turn to be the pup, and the good Doctor's to put me in my place.

The good Doctor stated, "Took me nearly a year to land that first fish, and by gum it's time for you to get in the game."

We made our way again just down the highway bridge, slip along the shack road, and enter off the park bridge. Again we donned waders, grabbed our fly rods and gear. I had a small plastic cup of various dry flies that looked "fishy", a new leader to attach, and a trout net.

The Doctor took delight in demonstrating how to put on a leader, and passed along a bottle of goop to keep the dry fly above water. I graciously accepted, and asked which fly to pick?

"Take a peek along the river edge, see what you can find, and pick one that looks right."

I made my way to the shrubs near the Rush, brushed the edges, and caught a greenish insect of some sort with just a touch of white. I looked back towards the good Doctor. He was going through one of three fly boxes of all size, color, and shape. Dry flies, wet flies, nymphs, crayfish, bass poppers were all present and ready. I looked at my simple cup, the size of a ketchup holder at McDonalds, and selected a #14 green olive.

After tying the fly using a rapala knot, (my bassing tendencies still prevail to this day), I began casting. To say I struggled was to put things lightly. Thankfully, the good Doctor offered a great deal of instruction. In little time I was able to place a fly generally where I'd hoped to.

We came along the same stretch we'd hit years ago, and I reflected on how good it was to be here amongst good company again. A reversal of proficiency perhaps, but that was not a bad thing. Both of us teachers and learners, we accepted the roles and focused on trout.

After working a number of pools, we finally came upon a familiar stretch of water. Still pools before a quickening of rapids and wide open fields. It was here I cast having had no previous success when my line came to life! The trout made a direct run to the deeper parts of the hole, and I worked him slowly out and back towards my net on the shore. The good Doctor coached me through the process, and slapped me with a congratulatory whack on the back.

Hmm... So this is fly fishing? Kind of fun. Not bad. Not bad at all! I kept at it, landing several other fish that day, keeping not a one. "Well done for an ignorant bass master," the good Doctor grinned, working ahead.

"How many years did it take you to land that first trout?" I asked.