Current Lessons - Flyfishing for Connection

 One of the few things my father handed down to me was a deep abiding love of trout.

My appreciation, nay, obsession for the iridescent sheen of the rose-colored flank of a rainbow flashing in the sunlight as it leaps into the air of a hidden pool began as a simple exploration of flyfishing at an elite trout club in Chagrin Falls, Ohio, the Pine Lake Trout Club. 

My father would hold meetings in the clubhouse with potential investors. He would send my brother, Miles, and me to figure out flyfishing techniques on the upper pools, which were stocked with behemoth brown and rainbow trout that had been fed pellets in a tightly controlled oxygen-rich environment.

I was 10 years old, and my brother was just six. We had no instruction other than an awkward cast that heaved large flies, called wooly buggers. We were given a bag lunch of sandwiches and gouda cheese from the bar in the clubhouse and soon figured out that those wooly buggers worked a lot better when we molded a small ball of the cheese onto the hook.

Before long, we had piled up a half cord of these monster rainbows when one of the gamekeepers alerted my father that his boys were draining the pond of their biggest fish and that they would be added to his tab at $3 a pound.

It was years before I learned about entomology and proper conservation concepts. I had been"sent away” to boarding school at Vermont Academy, where my educators taught us the finer points of flyfishing and how to read a stream. We picked up bugs from underneath rocks in a crystal-clear river and brought them back to the classroom in glass jars to study them.

We learned the major distinct species of mayflies, stoneflies and caddis. We studied water clarity, oxygen measurements and the difference between a freestone and a lime stream. We studied alkalinity, temperature, and phototropism. And to graduate from these classes we had to perform a proper roll cast and demonstrate how to properly load a rod based on its action — slow, medium or fast.

I did not know at the time that we were learning respect for the ecosystem and the species. Our goal was still to catch trout, but now we did it with intention and discipline. That, in turn, led us to deepen our understanding and love of the sport.

Decades later, I walk quietly down a sandy trail to a large pool in one of our major Vermont rivers after all the other fishermen have left.

I check the rocks and examine the surface from downstream to see what insects are hatching and which, if any, are spinning on the surface to be slurped into the vortex of a rising trout’s mouth. I check the water’s temperature and study the currents. There are three sets of riffles that I will need to cast across, mending my line for each tail out. This is where a hungry rainbow might lie in wait for a wriggling meal to float into his lane.

Trout are smart. They use as little energy as is required to feed when the water is warmer and are much more aggressive when the water is still cold. This time of year, it is still cool. I cautiously move upstream and stand behind a big boulder sitting in the current, just downstream from the pool. As I peek over the top, I notice a small whirlpool form just past the tail of the current. Within minutes, it happens again, but this time I catch the tip of a nose poking out of the whirlpool.

He’s feeding. Selectively. Being 65 years old, and having flyfished for over 50 years now, I have accumulated just enough wisdom to identify the hatch of flies and tie on a terrifyingly accurate deceiver, my favorite, the high floating elk hair caddis with a rust-colored thorax. I thrust the 6 weight rod forward and back gaining momentum with the line with each false cast. As the rod loads, I can feel the power of the spine bending to its maximum curvature. When I feel it is working its hardest, I lead the line behind me in a tight arc over my head and let out the weight forward floating line to fly across the three riffles. As the fly settles on the far side of the third riffle, I quickly mend the line with three quick whips upstream, allowing the deceiver to float at the same speed as the current. 

A vicious rise and the rod bends toward the water. The reel begins to sing it's high-pitched whine as the line is being ripped from the spool. With no warning, the fish jettisons out of the water, shaking his head with all the vigor of a trophy. I see his flank flash a stunning iridescent rainbow and he dives quickly back into the safety of his aquiline world. I begin to provide some resistance on the reel by palming it to slow down the drag. He fights with the abandon of a welterweight boxer whose goal is to defeat the champion. 

He makes three long runs to the other side of the pool and back. Finally, I can feel him tiring. I begin to gently work him toward the shoreline, using the current to wear him down and when I've coaxed him to within ten feet of me, I reach for my net. This is always the most dangerous point. It's when optimism is at its zenith and, most frequently, where battles are lost. I carefully bring him closer and continue to use the rod's power to keep him passive. I move my right hand holding the net behind him, downstream and gently scoop him up. He is a prize fighter and I am deeply honored to meet him.

I have accepted that I’ve had to make some adaptations to continue to pursue my passion. I now use 3.5x glasses to thread the hair-thin tippet through the eye of the fly. Even then it takes a few tries.I realize that this moment in time is worth all the effort it takes. My purpose on earth has been revealed to me. I am outdoorsman and will be until my last breath.

Until then I choose to continue pursuing this sport with all my heart. To see the flash of the rainbow's flank as it leaps out of the water, shaking his head fiercely, I will never tire of the excitement from this moment of connection to something wild. My spirit revels in every second I have left, to feel the current around me, as if life itself was a current that both supports me and would one day sweep me into a deeper pool where I might learn new techniques of fishing.

As the sun paints the verdant hills with the golden glow of a summer's eve, I feel that deeply personal need for belonging to something greater being fulfilled. My cup runneth over.

Art is Life Interpreted

The intrinsic values of fly fishing and fine art are intertwined to depths unimaginable to the untrained eye. The rhythm of motion in a perfectly thrown cast and the fluid stroke of a brush. The arcing line of a weight-forward fly line and the loading of a well-structured rod blank imitates the weight of paint on the brush as the artist transfers the subtle nuances of color to the canvas. The ethereal colors of the brook trout’s blue halos surrounding the burnt orange spots are reminiscent of a summer sunset on a palette of bluish-purple sky. It is no coincidence that the range of colors offer us proof of a Higher Power’s joy in creating scenes that draw awe and wonder from those of us lucky enough to still be walking on this earth.

My wife, Katie, who is a remarkable artist, spends her days capturing these salutary moments of bliss. It’s no wonder that she has a love of fly fishing. For those of us who are fortunate enough to be blessed with the ability to notice and revel in the beauty of a present moment, fly fishing and art are the essence of natural connection.

Sometimes I sit in the old worn leather chair in her studio and quietly watch her paintings evolve from thought, to spirit, to brush, to canvas. She is able to capture the essence of a feeling in the same way that holding a brook trout in my hand, as its colors sparkle in the sunshine, engages my deepest most spiritual connection to our world.

As we stand in the gurgling stream near our house at sunset, casting colorful flies into the dark blue waters below the frothy white falls, I watch her work her Sage fly rod with the same precision and rhythm that she bestows upon her brush in the studio. The fly line forms a beautiful “U” shaped arc behind her and builds its speed as it whips toward the pool. The fly, an elk hair caddis with a rust colored thorax, reaches the apogee of the arc, then slows down to land gently just below the tail of the froth. The fly spins on the rippling water as if it were alive and begins to drift downstream toward the slower water at the bottom of the pool.

Katie is watching the imitation with the same focus and intensity that exemplifies her work in the studio. The timing is immaculate.

As the voracious fish breaks the surface of the stream, Katie is leaning into the cast to engage the trout the moment that it opens its mouth to swallow the deceiver. The instant that the mouth closes on the fly, Katie lifts her rod swiftly, but not so much that it pulls the fly out of its mouth. The rod bends at the tip and throbs with passion as the dynamic tension of the artist and her subject commune in a moment of metaphysical connection. Two spirits interlocking in a world separated by only water and air.

The fish leaps into the air above, flashing its iridescent orange fins rimmed with white borders. For the moment, these two beings are enmeshed in the dance of life. The eternal struggle of mortality and all its wonder is represented by beauty and nature in this, the pinnacle of the present.

She coaxes the brook trout to her side, tenderly slipping the net under its flanks and raises it above the water. Extracting the fly from the side of the brookie’s mouth with as little discomfort as possible, Katie raises the aquiline wonder to her face and offers it a blessing, then returns the creature to the comfort of its world. For a moment, the brookie seems to pause and reflect on what just happened. 

Was that an angel that just held its body and released it?

The next day, I rise early to go to work and Katie is already in the studio working on a new painting.

I notice the blue halos around the burnt orange spots on the flank of the subject that is being created out of oil and canvas and smile.

His Majesty Falls

I woke up late, exhausted by another week of slogging through the mire as a slave of commerce. My heart and my mind were already in the woods, but my body required extra rest. I’ve never been one to sleep in when it comes to hunting or fishing, but this time was different. My wife had been out riding her horse the day before and told me of a big turkey that flushed out of the field in front of her and flew up into the trees, spooking her and her equine partner. Rousting out of bed at 9:00 – late for a hunting expedition -since all hunters know that peak encounter times occur most often at dawn and dusk – I lazily dressed myself in camo and headed to the woods.

I clucked every 100 yards to see if I could elicit an answer. Nothing. I hiked back into the swamp and set up my decoys to sit and listen. I crawled under a wild tangle of shrubbery and leaned uncomfortably against the base. I let out a loud series of clucks and far off in the distance, I heard him. He gobbled viciously but must have been about a half mile away. I picked up my decoys and packed them into my turkey vest. I hiked through a wet swamp, my feet getting wetter each time a hummock gave way to the water underneath.

Turkey hunting is a fascinating means of dialoguing with an animal. In nature it is the hen that calls out to the tom “where are you?” and the tom will gobble back giving away his location, to which she is obligated to pursue him. In hunting turkey, the goal is to get a tom to do exactly the opposite of what nature has taught him. The hunter has to convince the tom that he is a hen that is ready to breed and is not going to seek him out but begs and pleads with him to come find her. This makes the whole pursuit quite difficult.

This particular bird was on posted property, across a small stream, up a hill and all the way to the end of a long field. I had to call very convincingly to attract him past these obstacles – which by the way, is also against their nature.

I found some dry ground on the edge of the swamp and stopped. I looked at my watch. 11:30. I called again, and knew I had but a half hour to complete my mission. I could feel my heart beating heavily in my chest, blood pulsing through the veins in my arms. For the next half hour, I gave it all I had. I clucked, purred, putted and screamed my romantic desire to the whole forest. Each time, at the end of a monologue, he would vociferously reply that he wanted very badly to meet me. This dance went on for 20 minutes and each time he answered he was a little closer.

I looked at my watch again. 11:55. This game was nearly over, as the closing time each day in May is high noon. Just like the old Westerns, this drama played out with the deadline approaching quickly. Then suddenly he stopped communicating. This meant one thing. He was seeking visual verification of this hot young hen.

Then, behind a fallen pine, I saw the full fan. This was a big bird – monarch of the woods. He strutted back and forth behind the tree when a hen popped out from behind the root ball. She took three steps forward and turned to the fully fanned tom. He took one step toward her. The hen took three more steps forward, putting inquisitively. Again, she turned to him and he took one more step forward. He was now behind the root ball of the fallen pine. I lowered my head to the stock of my shotgun and took a deep breath. I cocked my wrist to one side to look at my watch. Being legal is in my nature. This could play out either way. 11:58. I looked back up at the hen as she took three more steps and turned to the tom to give him the okay that the coast was clear.

His bright red and blue head thrust forward from behind the tree and I placed the bead of my shotgun on him. For one moment, we were hopelessly entwined in the dance of life. He, the monarch, and I the peasant in his kingdom. We joined breaths as I pulled the trigger. The echo of the shotgun bounced off the distant hills in the valley and the king lay still on the forest floor. I looked at my watch. 11:59. I walked over to him and kneeled to pray. “Great Spirit, thank you for presenting me with this beautiful being. I promise to honor his life and share his grace and majesty with those deserving of his glory. 

Thank you, Great Spirit. Thank you, God.”

The walk home was a long one and at one point a tear of remorse and gratitude rolled down my cheek. I let myself feel it track down my cheek to the side of my mouth, where I touched it with my tongue and felt its salty sweetness. This is life and I am a part of all that is.