Letters to Smed – “The Purist” (conclusion)

It was a great day on the river. Too bad you couldn’t make it. I didn’t manage to hook anything but I did have some huge swirls at my fly. I remember when all you could catch here were bass, pike, and carp; Smed you’d be amazed at the number of absolutely huge browns lurking behind the rocks and in the pools now. And, it sure makes a difference when you have a bit of one-on-one instruction…

"Sorry for loosing my temper, Jim. I should have just persevered like you said." "I had done it." I was now a true flyfisherman! I could hear Jim saying, "Pull your line gently, giving it the occasional twitch."

Slowly I pulled in line. Foot by foot, giving the odd twitch. And then with a suddenness that almost put me back in the water, a two pound bass leapt to take my fly. I leaned back arching my 10 foot rod, as I had done countless times before and, you guessed again, my two pound test leader snapped with the sound of a dry twig.

"Don't loose your temper. Just tie on another fly and try again." I said out loud, while all I surveyed took on a reddish haze.

After my latest battle with the flyline, I moved further down stream to the fast water where I had caught the occasional trout. Once again I began my hypnotic, rhythmic motion.

"Yes this would be the cast to end all casts." I thought "This is truly what fishing was meant to be."

"Mooo-ahhh-yeee" came a sound like brakes squealing on the expressway, as I once again sank my hook into something solid. This time it was not me seeing red, but a big mean bull that looked to be the size of a freight car. And this bull had no sense of humour at all as he suddenly realized the source of the pain in his rump.

"Scrape, snort...Scrape, snort" came the sound as he pawed the ground. It felt as if the gates of hell had opened and this demon was sent to bring me in.

My perfectly balanced rod and ultra precision reel no longer mattered as they quickly sank to the bottom of the river. My only thought was of reaching that knurled old apple tree before the demon could reach me. I'm sure an Olympic sprinter couldn't have passed me at that moment, as I ran towards the tree, listening to the fast closing freight train. Tripping, slipping and all the while cursing the heavy chestwaders, I finally made it to the tree. I climbed with the agility of a chimpanzee and was out of harms way just as the bull ran, head-long, into the base of the tree.

"So here I am, sitting on this branch, ripping up my Jerkwater Jim notes, watching the sun go down, waiting for the 'bull from Hell' to get bored and leave so I can climb down and go pick some dew worms.

"By the way, if you happen to find a perfectly balanced rod and an ultra precision reel at the bottom of the Grand River, you're welcome to it." "But if your smart you'll throw it right back and go dig some worms, lest the 'bull from hell' set his sights on you."

Well it looks like a few years and a bit of grey hair and a bit more patience certainly was the ticket. Now I know were to go, I know some simple techniques all I need is a good ole fishing buddy by my side. Why don’t you throw your stuff in the car and we’ll head on up. Have a good one Smed.

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