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

We got picked up about 8:00 and drove to the far side of Fergus. This is a part of the river I’ve never fished before and our guide was very gracious with his information and even before we left the car I had picked up more tips than I ever did on my own. Maybe this time will be different afterall…

I sat quietly at the edge of the still, deep, pool by the bend in the river. The same place I had caught countless bass and pike in the past. The past, that is, before I 'saw the light' and became a fly-fisherman.

"Sit quietly." Jim had said softly. "Watch the water for surfacing fish. You'll be able to tell by watching, which insects they're feeding on." "Then select a fly from your box that resembles the ones the fish are feeding on. Tie the fly onto your leader. Carefully and quietly cast to a spot where the fish are actively 'rising' and hang on." Jim said with confidence. And sure enough, right at that moment, Jim caught one of the nicest trout I had ever seen.

After watching the water for nearly 20 minutes, and still not being able to tell what in blazes the fish were feeding on, I gently pulled a brown, fuzzy looking, fly from my fishing vest and tied it to the leader, as Jim had instructed.

The sun was just beginning to peek over the far ridge as I eased my way, noiselessly, into the placid, misty water.

I'm not sure at which point it was that I lost control of the situation, but instead of a throbbing bass on the end of my line, I had sunk my hook solidly into a tree branch about 25 feet off the ground.

"Be prepared for the odd frustration" I had coached myself the night before, "Just break the leader and tie on a new one and start again."

After the occasional 'spicy' conversation with the maker of the seemingly untieable fly-line, and the invocation of assistance from 'on high', I was finally ready to try again.

The greater wisdom of my subconscious mind was over active today as it suggested, "Turn over that big rock and see what type of bugs are there. Pick a fly and 'match the hatch' just like Jim told you."

I should mention that I'm a big sissy when it comes to anything that slithers through the grass and, you guessed it, just as I began to move the rock, out slithered a 2 foot garter snake, sending chills up and down my spine. The same kind of feeling you get when an unexpected letter from Revenue Canada arrives. I jumped back; slipped on something long dead and foul smelling did a perfect pirouette and wound up sitting in two feet of water. I'm sure I could hear that snake chuckling as it slowly slithered to find a less exciting venue.

I had, however, managed to keep my perfectly balanced rod and ultra precision reel out of harms way, over my head.

"To Hell with matching the hatch! Just put on a damn fly, throw it out, and see what happens." I thought, beginning to allow just a bit of frustration to show through, as I emptied the water from my waders.

Looking behind to make sure the fly-grabbing tree was out of harms way, I began my rhythmic motion. Back and forth...back and forth...back and forth, and then one final cast and my fly drifted gently to the water in the middle of the pool.

Got someone at the door Smed ole buddy, so I’ll fire this off and get back to you later…

©Lloyd Fridenburg, 2008 – all rights reserved

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