Pulling onto a stretch of BLM land my tires hit the dirt road, covered in rocks, and the dust begins kicking up well behind my bumper. Farley’s head is immediately brought to attention and he knows that wherever we’re headed it’s definitely going to involve some outdoor exploring. So I encourage him, prod him along, and before you know it he can barely keep his paws off the door handle; perhaps one of my most joyful sights.
Continuing down the road the sagebrush on either side of my
truck begins to squeeze closer and closer and after driving through a cowboy
gate (a mish-mash of barbed wire, old fence posts, and some locking mechanism,
usually of chain and wood) I am faced with a steep downhill that will
undoubtedly inflict some damage to my paint job. But I decided the drive is
worth it and push on, sad to hear the scratching along my truck but knowing
where the road will take me.
I, just like many others out there, have always taken great
pride in caring for my vehicles over the years. I have washed them, vacuumed
the insides, and avoiding any crazy driving, however, there comes a point when
you don’t necessarily have to let go but, rather, accept that to do what you
want to do and get to the places you often want to go, once in a while, the
paint is going to take a hit. I mean, let’s be honest, hunting and fishing are
not accomplished in urban centers or over manicured lawns; they are sought out
in the forests, in the sagebrush, and along rivers that originate in the
mountains and as such, often require some sacrifice to get to. So, while I
still cringe at the thought of scratching my truck, I push forward, throw
it into four wheel drive and start kicking up dirt.
When I finally arrive at the river the scenery is beautiful.
The water level looks perfect and I can already begin to see the pockets and
channels that will be the target of my fly. And with that thought already
exciting me I begin to hear, before my feet can hit the ground, the sound that
most drives me above all other sounds; it’s the “chuk, chuk, chuk” of chukar
calling from high above. Calling down at me as if to laugh, knowing that I must
still wait three months to chase them, but soon I will be after them…very soon
indeed.
With my hip waders on I assemble my rod and pull out my new
reel. It looks great and even with a little chaos that ensued the night before
(attaching the line, leader, and tippet) I was nearly ready to go. Now, the only
thing standing in my way was a little side canal but carrying the dog I am quickly across and ready to fish.
Farley, practically encompassed by the thick shoreline
vegetation, stands and watches as I wade into the river. The skies are now
splashed with summer blue and down deep in the canyon I feel altogether small
in such an immense landscape. But despite my momentary infatuation I looked
down to begin assessing the river and try to stay on my feet. Although the
river was only knee high in most places the bottom was thick with underwater
algae and made for some rather slippery foot holds. However, I pushed on and
finally got to a place where I could send out my first cast. “Here we go”, I
thought.
It didn’t take long before my thoughts of a smooth and
glorious day of fishing out on the river were turned on their head. After only
a few casts I found my line tangled at the end of my rod and before I could
figure out what was going on the winds picked up and all was lost. “Here we go alright”, time to hone and
sharpen my knot untying skills...ugh. It was almost comical, what a goof.
So, with no other choice I began to seek out the problem
spot, moving line around, trying to get a hold of the right end, and all the
while trying to keep my reel from smacking on the ground and the end of my rod
from catching in the water. I began to laugh at the sight of myself, I mean,
honestly, I hope no one is filming this right now. To see this sight you would
think I could barely tie my own shoelaces. But I was not about to let some tiny
line define my day out. So, as is customary when faced with an unsolvable knot,
I cut it off and began anew; the prospect of which had me a little nervous. But
I was determined to learn something on this day that was directly related to
fly fishing, not untying knots; I can do that any time I want.
So, using the knowledge of knots I had tried to gain from
YouTube videos and the book James gave me I put it all back together in not an
embarrassing amount of time and was soon back to fishing. I walked up and down
the river, slipping here and there, but mainly focused on finding fish. Side
channels and backwaters were all about and traversing the river bottom I soon
found myself on the other side fishing in some little holes. Then, looking back
I realized why I love my little brown dog so much. Not concerned with where I
was going he simply sat on the far shoreline, basking in the sunlight, almost
as if to say, “It’s okay, I can still see you”, and so went the afternoon; the
little dog seemingly content with any situation and simply happy to have the
sun on his back.
Working on my motion and technique I was forced to compete
with the winds on more than one occasion. With gust upwards of 20 mph every ten
minutes or so, I tried to fit my casting in between the waves. Watching my arm
angle, taking my time, and trying to place the fly where I wanted it to go. I
would say the overall display was suitable but I found myself again laughing
with the thought that were James with me today he would have undoubtedly
already caught a dozen fish or so, been weaving his way up river, and looking
like the Brad Pitt in “A River Runs Through It”. But I had to keep working and
with every change of my fly I could see myself getting faster and better at
putting them on. The day was going accordingly to plan, at least somewhat.
It wasn’t long after this realization that I had what would
be the excitement of the day when my first fish of the season grabbed hold of
my fly and began to run with it. As I sit here on my couch I’ve concocted an
elaborate story in my head of the struggle and mental fatigue that went into
the battle. However, in the end it would only be a childhood exaggeration when
in reality, the fish was no bigger than my hand, and the only struggle was me
trying to figure out what I should do with the obvious excess of line I had
out. But the fish cut me a break, stayed on the line, and after some rather
awkward bending I reached down to pull the fish from the water. It appears that
it was not only to my joy but to Farley’s as well as I could see him
practically jumping in the river to get over to me. As such, the season’s first
success was had and while the fish was most certainly caught with more luck
than skill I was happy to have him under my belt and to have a story to take
home with me.
The day would push on and I would find myself getting a feel
for the rod and reel and working on my knots plenty. I would work on finding
the right fishing holes, on manipulating the line, and trying to find my
motion. Farley would decide at one point that he had had enough of this
watching business and to my utter surprise, as he has never been known to
enjoy water, he began walking out into the river, swimming at times, just to
come over and check out the action. I do believe there are few times in my life
when I have worn a bigger smile on my face. The day was beautiful, my dog was
swimming, and I was fishing; not too bad if I had to say.
In the end I would find myself snagged in some twigs under
the water and with a snap of my tippet I decided to resign for the day. I
headed back across to the river side I had came and after listening to the
chukar call once more I slowly packed up my gear and loaded everything up. As I
drove out of the canyon I felt very good about my progress and am now more
determined than ever to continue on this path. With some more days like this I
suppose both Farley and I will be in our way in no time.
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