Letters to Smed – “The Purist” (cont’d)

Well Smed, I’m nearly ready for the big day. I pinched the barbs on the few flies that I owned, tucked them in a nice box and managed to make a few casts across the back yard…without getting hung up on the fence. Still I’m a bit nervous about getting into this again…

"Off to the tackle shop I sped hauling my reams of notes and diagrams along with me.

One hour later and $250.00 lighter (Jim failed to explain the initial cost of this venture) I emerged from the store grinning like the proverbial Cheshire Cat. I could almost feel the throbbing fish on the end of my carefully weighted line as it made a wide, sweeping, bow in my perfectly balanced rod and was being slowly drawn closer to the net by my ultra precision reel.

After a few minor frustrations I finally had my prize assembled and trundled off, notes and diagrams in hand, to the backyard.

"Let about 8 feet of line extend from the tip of your rod and peel off as many yards of line as you intend to cast and let it fall at your feet." I could hear Jim saying. "Now swing your rod back in a sweeping arch and let several more feet of line slip through your fingers on the forward stroke. Continue this motion until your fly has reached the place you want it to land. Then with one final cast, let it float gently to the water."

"Why am I standing here with a hook in my pant leg and the rest of the line twirled around my rod?" I wondered. I stopped to read my notes and check my diagrams again. "Everything looks right. Lets give it another try."

As darkness began to fall, I finally seemed to be getting the hang of it. I could cast all the way across the yard, and only occasionally did I get caught on my neighbours clothesline. My, long cold, supper waited on the kitchen table as my lovely wife, who was no longer speaking to me, retired to the living room to snuggle up with a book on male psychology and mid-life crisis.

The sky was showing the first signs of brightening as I donned my chest waders, while sitting on a picnic table beside the car. The scenic Grand River, that I had fished for years, unfolded in the valley below and seemed to take on a new and more mature beauty now that I was able to, finally, wander it's banks as a fishing 'purist'. The mist hanging low over the water gave an air of surrealism to the scene. I sat for a moment and watched, with near reverence, this scene of early morning beauty.

I slipped on my fishing vest, that held all equipment necessary to catch the huge bass waiting below. (Of course those 'big' fish that had eluded me for years would be jumping out of the water when presented with the proper fly. Everyone knows a truly huge fish would never stoop so low as to eat worms and minnows.)

I lifted my rod with the gentleness of a mother holding her new baby, as I started off down the steep path leading to the rivers edge. Cattle were gently grazing in a nearby field and in the distance I could hear the first rooster crow. The air was fresh with the scent of mid-summer, while at the same time, cool and damp with the early morning dew. The sight and feel was enough to send shivers of ecstasy down your spine."

Catch ya later Smed…I’m off to pack up my stuff.

©Lloyd Fridenburg, 2008 – all rights reserved

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