Since I was a little kid with a stick and string fishing off a country bridge I have spent time on the water with many different people. Some were social fishermen, some body count fishermen, some were there just to get out of the house, and some were trophy seekers. The guys I would invite back were there because of respect. They were the ones who respected other anglers, but most of all the resource. These gents often picked up the trash left by others, noticed and appreciated the kingfisher or eagle soaring overhead; wanted their companion to fish the best spot; enjoyed the outing whether we caught fish or not.
A few years ago, I had a chance to fish with one of my boyhood heroes. We spent half the day in a canoe chucking flies for bass and musky but couldn’t catch anything over 4 inches long. It was one of my most relaxing and memorable fishing trips. I returned home with a clear mind and memories of filling a place in nature where I truly belonged; of a glass smooth lake under wispy fog; a bald eagle against a blue sky; of conversation about life not just the weather; of renewing a friendship that had lain dormant for 20 years. I had the good fortune of stepping out of the car, away from the cell phone, and out of rat race for a few hours to live life at the speed of nature.
I grew up on the edge of a 100 acre natural lake. I had my trusty spinning rod, but was always fascinated by my Dad’s black and yellow fly rod. One day I left the spinning rod home and took the fly rod. After a lot of flailing and fumbling I managed to land some very willing bluegills. I was hooked, and it wasn’t long before I wanted a fly rod of my own that could handle some of the trophy bass that lurked under the lily pads.
Following the path of fly fishermen before me, I whittled a piece of wood, raided my mom’s sewing cabinet for black thread, strapped on some red squirrel tail hair and had my first hand-tied popper. Believe it or not, the fish loved it. It was only a matter of time before I was wrapping my own rods.
A few years ago, I had a chance to fish with one of my boyhood heroes. We spent half the day in a canoe chucking flies for bass and musky but couldn’t catch anything over 4 inches long. It was one of my most relaxing and memorable fishing trips. I returned home with a clear mind and memories of filling a place in nature where I truly belonged; of a glass smooth lake under wispy fog; a bald eagle against a blue sky; of conversation about life not just the weather; of renewing a friendship that had lain dormant for 20 years. I had the good fortune of stepping out of the car, away from the cell phone, and out of rat race for a few hours to live life at the speed of nature.
I grew up on the edge of a 100 acre natural lake. I had my trusty spinning rod, but was always fascinated by my Dad’s black and yellow fly rod. One day I left the spinning rod home and took the fly rod. After a lot of flailing and fumbling I managed to land some very willing bluegills. I was hooked, and it wasn’t long before I wanted a fly rod of my own that could handle some of the trophy bass that lurked under the lily pads.
Following the path of fly fishermen before me, I whittled a piece of wood, raided my mom’s sewing cabinet for black thread, strapped on some red squirrel tail hair and had my first hand-tied popper. Believe it or not, the fish loved it. It was only a matter of time before I was wrapping my own rods.