Let the Fishing Begin

Growing up I have vivid memories of my earliest fishing days. Some associated with my grandfather and others with my best friend of the time, Miguel. Both had their own variety of adventure and I cannot remember a single day where I wasn’t smiling and didn’t fully enjoy myself. Fishing it seems, is practically a universal childhood activity, requiring only a rod, bait, and a willingness to push through some rather tangled thickets.

My grandfather, an old Italian with the kind of knowledge that can only be acquired through a diverse and long life, has been many things for me, but above all, I always considered him a fisherman. There is nothing he seems to enjoy more than being out on the water and when it comes to fishing, it would appear there are very few things he doesn’t know how to do.

One of my earliest memories is being out on his boat, off the coast of Connecticut, watching him filet a flounder on his wooden cutting board with a worn down white handled knife. I remember thinking how incredible it was and what a passion he had for it. Looking back I can only assume that he got just as much joy out of watching my excitement as did I from watching him.

With my friend Miguel our fishing trips were never more than a quick drive out to one of our local reservoirs, stopping by the side of the road and running down to the water. Of course where grew up fishing on a reservoir, not exactly considered a hot spot, meant that more often than not we had the entirety of the water to ourselves; to this day I’ll never complain about that. And while we did catch many small fish I do remember Miguel, on a cool afternoon, caught the biggest fish the two of us had ever seen. To this day I cannot remember how big it actually was but as is typical for childhood stories, the size of the fish is now legendary and more than likely twice as big as it really was. But who cares, that’s what makes your childhood fun and what brings us together when we meet up many years down the road. Those were the days.

Where I find myself today is trying to tap back into those fishing roots. For years I have neglected to get out with friends or relatives and now, living here in Oregon, I can’t find any excuse not to get back at it. There are rivers and streams painted across the landscape and plenty of fish running their waters. It’s about time that I begin putting in the time once again and James, a fly fisherman at heart, has inspired me to do just that.

A man of many talents I had no idea that James had such a drive for fly fishing until the spring of last year. When brought up in conversation his description of casting a line out and the thrill it gave him was almost poetic. He obviously had a passion and it would appear that any chance he has to get out is taken without question. And so we began to talk more and more about what was involved; James eventually loaning me a book and some verbal advice. I would end up buying a road and reel that year and head out into the woods in search of water and fish.

The beginning was rough going to say the least. Within the season I had cracked my rod in half and my reel had lost a spring and was basically useless; I’m not sure my grandfather would be too impressed. But this year I am back for more, buying a new rod at the end of last year and purchasing a reel online this week. I am pushing to try even harder this season to get out and practice; work on my technique and refine my motions. However, I have to admit, some things are coming easier than others.

Without question, making time to get up in the woods is the easiest part of this whole deal. The motivation to be out and about has always driven me. But there are other aspects of fly fishing that are more difficult. Growing up I spent most of my days “Bubba” fishing as many like to call it. It was not the most refined of activities but it was fun and there was hardly a day that we didn’t head back home with some fish. The process was simple, more enjoying your surroundings and waiting for something to tug on your line than anything. Which brings us to fly fishing, a type of fishing requiring a great deal more concentration, attention to detail, and patience, all of which I believe I possess, but to a varying degree.

Above all I believe my biggest trouble comes with knots. Not actually knowing the steps to tie the knots, but physically tying them. Tiny line (and I must make sure not to call it string, as I found out quickly one time, is not at all acceptable vernacular), tiny knots, and big clumsy fingers are not really the best combination. I’ve tried at home, in the truck, and on the water, all attempts met with failure. And then there is casting, in small spaces, along small streams, in small pockets of water; I’m starting to wonder if a guy like me was meant for such a refined world. But I am not deterred, not put off, just determined to keep working, keep pushing, and hope that I can figure it out. I know that I have great attention to detail and in the end, I am sure that this activity and I are compatible.

For now, I wait for my reel to come in and then, with some free time on my hands over the next few weeks I will hit the rivers and continue to practice. I will practice my knots, my casting, work on reading the river, and ask James endless questions.

Last year I would call my fishing trips more misadventures than anything else. Hopefully, with a little more time on the water and a little more knowledge, I can actually go fishing this year.