This past week I was in Wales, visiting family and generally trying to do as much fishing as I could whilst staying under the radar. It's always a delicate balance between fishing and home life (I won't even mention 'worklife'). I like to think I get it right by prioritising fishing, unless my other priorities get in the way. Maybe that's just a psychologically more appealing way of saying, "I fish whenever I can" - where my 'can' may be different to your 'can.'
I had bought a day on the river Monnow on the Welsh borders and had also arranged to meet a friend on a new section of the Taff. I had fished both rivers before and I had called ahead to ask about what state they were in. Consequently, I knew what to expect in terms of river conditions, hatches and what flies would probably work at this time of the year. In my opinion, this basic knowledge probably covers 75% of 'the game.' If you know these things, and the conditions are right, and you can fish a half-decent drift, then you're probably gonna hook up with a few fish.
That said, the difference between an average day and a good or really great day can sometimes come down to the knowledge - the extra 25% added by knowing a particular stream or stretch intimately. I'm not just talking about having fished a particular stretch or run before. I'm talking about getting to the point where you can recognise how the physical and biological character of the river changes with the seasons (of which there are more than four on most rivers) and how those changes affect where the fish are at and what they are doing. Unfortunately, there are very few spots I know like this. Maybe that's not such a bad thing. I could say that I've cultivated a deeper relationship with a couple of rivers, rather than having a series of meaningless flings.
Having the knowledge (or not) affects the overall quality of the fishing experience in ways that go beyond catching fish (or not). Try as I might, I don't seem to be able to stick to one spot on new water for very long, no matter how good it is. I'm always concerned that I'm missing something really good just round the next bend. 'The grass is greener' and all that. One of these days, I'll learn to be satisfied with what I've got right in front of me - at least to the point that I have worked the water thoroughly. But I've found that's a lot easier to do when you actually do know what's around the next bend. On rivers where I have the knowledge, I can take my time and really work a section without feeling like I'm cheating myself.
Coming back to the art of catching fish, my experience is that sometimes the extra 25% from the knowledge pays dividends and sometimes it doesn't. More often than not, it does. As it turned out, the knowledge didn't really factor on the Monnow. The fish were hungry and willing to eat just about anything I threw at them. But on the Taff, it was only due to the knowledge (and generosity) of a friend, that I didn't blank. I owe you one G.
TL
Monday 30 June 2008
Wednesday 18 June 2008
Last cast
There is something magical about the last cast - that one last effort to catch a fish before reeling in, breaking down the rod and heading home. For whatever cosmic reason,the last effort in fishing often provokes a 'perfect cast' or presentation that does indeed give the angler the best possible shot at that last rising trout. Most things in life don't work out that way. Far too often in my fishing, the last cast has carried with it the balance between catching fish and officially getting skunked. Sometimes it delivers, sometimes it does not. But as I said, there is something magical about it.
When I first got into fly fishing I spent a day on Flat Creek near Jackson Wyoming with an Old Friend. This is difficult fishing to say the least. Not really the best place for a beginner. Still, I managed to hook (and lose) a few small cutthroats during the sunniest parts of the day.
We stayed out on the river until well after sunset, hoping to catch one of the big cutts that we could see cruising like torpedos up and down the crystal clear runs. If anything, the fish became harder to catch when the evening shift clocked in. As soon as the sun went down, the bigger, more wiley fish came out to play, pushing the younger, less educated fish out of the best feeding lanes. Suddenly, that 15 inch fish you had been casting to during the day became a 24 inch pig that wouldn't even glance at your fly unless its legs were folded correctly.
As the gloom deepened and the sky turned to a milky colbalt, we began to look anxiously towards the gap in the elk fence, making sure we could still see our way back to the car. I convinced Old Friend to let me take one last cast. I threw my hopper pattern as far as I could downstream and started dumping line. I was just about to the backing when I heard (rather than saw) a big rise. I clumsily pulled in the slack and set the hook way too late, but somehow connected with a huge cutthroat. Magical.
Ok, so I didn't land that fish either, but the experience has forever convinced me that there is indeed something almost supernatural about the last cast. It also taught me that a series of 'granny knots' is not sufficient for connecting fly to leader.
On the river (which must not be named) that I fish most often these days in Norfolk, there are big stocked brownies that are relatively easy to catch and a good head of small wild brownies that are exceedingly more difficult to hook, much less bring to hand. I am normally more interested in catching the small wildies than I am in catching the big stockies.
Last night, I spent about 3 hours on the river chasing the wild browns in the long evening. Conditions seemed perfect, there were a lot of flies flitting and darting around, but the fishing was difficult for some reason. I was just about to go home when I thought I might go up to the very top of the beat and see if there were any wildies messing about.
This spot is very difficult to fish well due to overhanging branches and tricky currents. Consequently, it almost always contains rising trout. After a series of poor, splashy casts that should have put the fish down for the evening, I decided to call it a day. I had reeled up and was just turning away when I saw a rise close in to the bank in an area of water I had not covered. I decided to have one last cast for that fish. I stripped off what I thought was the right amount of line, crept up as far as I could on my knees and somehow managed to snake the cast around and under an overhanging tree to put the fly right on top of where I had seen the fish rise. The fly had barely settled when it was engulfed by a little copper rocket from below.
I did manage to land that one. And once again, I owe it to the magical last cast.
When I first got into fly fishing I spent a day on Flat Creek near Jackson Wyoming with an Old Friend. This is difficult fishing to say the least. Not really the best place for a beginner. Still, I managed to hook (and lose) a few small cutthroats during the sunniest parts of the day.
We stayed out on the river until well after sunset, hoping to catch one of the big cutts that we could see cruising like torpedos up and down the crystal clear runs. If anything, the fish became harder to catch when the evening shift clocked in. As soon as the sun went down, the bigger, more wiley fish came out to play, pushing the younger, less educated fish out of the best feeding lanes. Suddenly, that 15 inch fish you had been casting to during the day became a 24 inch pig that wouldn't even glance at your fly unless its legs were folded correctly.
As the gloom deepened and the sky turned to a milky colbalt, we began to look anxiously towards the gap in the elk fence, making sure we could still see our way back to the car. I convinced Old Friend to let me take one last cast. I threw my hopper pattern as far as I could downstream and started dumping line. I was just about to the backing when I heard (rather than saw) a big rise. I clumsily pulled in the slack and set the hook way too late, but somehow connected with a huge cutthroat. Magical.
Ok, so I didn't land that fish either, but the experience has forever convinced me that there is indeed something almost supernatural about the last cast. It also taught me that a series of 'granny knots' is not sufficient for connecting fly to leader.
On the river (which must not be named) that I fish most often these days in Norfolk, there are big stocked brownies that are relatively easy to catch and a good head of small wild brownies that are exceedingly more difficult to hook, much less bring to hand. I am normally more interested in catching the small wildies than I am in catching the big stockies.
Last night, I spent about 3 hours on the river chasing the wild browns in the long evening. Conditions seemed perfect, there were a lot of flies flitting and darting around, but the fishing was difficult for some reason. I was just about to go home when I thought I might go up to the very top of the beat and see if there were any wildies messing about.
This spot is very difficult to fish well due to overhanging branches and tricky currents. Consequently, it almost always contains rising trout. After a series of poor, splashy casts that should have put the fish down for the evening, I decided to call it a day. I had reeled up and was just turning away when I saw a rise close in to the bank in an area of water I had not covered. I decided to have one last cast for that fish. I stripped off what I thought was the right amount of line, crept up as far as I could on my knees and somehow managed to snake the cast around and under an overhanging tree to put the fly right on top of where I had seen the fish rise. The fly had barely settled when it was engulfed by a little copper rocket from below.
I did manage to land that one. And once again, I owe it to the magical last cast.
Sunday 15 June 2008
My first post
Hello world. It is doubtful anyone will ever read this blog except myself and maybe a few well-meaning friends. But for their benefit and for my own, I thought I might start out by just saying why I am creating this thing - what is it for?
Like most fishermen, I fish for a lot of reasons. Catching fish is one of them, but certainly not the only one. I'm not sure if its even the most important one. I'll probably come back to that thought later. Certainly there is something almost magical, or maybe unbelievable about watching your fly disappear in a sudden swirl or holding the electric body of a trout.
For me, a big part of fishing is about being in touch with nature in a particularly powerful way. There's a great scientific article by a sociologist (like me) named Phil Macnaghten (2003) who interviewed several different groups of people, each with a unique connection to the environment through a chosen activity. The fly fishermen spoke most about connecting with the river - about tuning into everything that was happening in and around the patch of river around them. About keening their ears for the sound of a rise and scanning the surface of the water for a likely lie and the shadow of a trout. For these fishermen, fishing was about connecting with the predatory instinct. I believe even catch and release fishing can help one tune into that primordial urge.
Related to the first one, there is also the sense of getting away from it all. I think this one is pretty self explanatory, but I should make the point that one doesn't always need to go too far to get away from whatever 'all of it' is. One of my favorite stretches on the river Rhymney in S. Wales is very near a busy road and a noisy factory. The fish don't seem to mind and neither do I. Peace is subjective. But then again, there are times when only real distance and wild surrounds will do. Fortunately, I find time for both, although I get to do less of the latter than I would like.
I also fly fish for the companionship. I like to fish alone, but with good friends nearby. There's an important distinction there. Even the good Lord himself would get a dirty look from me if he wandered into the water upstream of me. Fishing with friends is best done around the campfire at the end of a long day alone on the water. That doesn't mean you can't stay within sight of each other or pass the occasional wisecrack, but you don't exactly want to be able to hold hands either. Unless they are stuck in a boat together, most fishermen like to spread out.
Finally, I will admit that I also like fishing for the 'kit' - the accoutrement - the stuff. I'm not exactly a 'tackle tart' as they call them over here, but I do keep a stack of fishing catalogues on the back of the toilet. I guess it goes back to my youth when my father and I would look through Cabelas or Bass Pro Shops and dream - him about the boats that he never bought, and me about different rods and reels that I could never afford on my birthday and lawn mowing money. Well, now I'm better able to afford them, but I still can't say I'm satisfied. I own 8 fly rods. Trust me - that's nothing. Each one of my rods is useful, but I probably only use about three of them with any kind of regularity. I've owned many more at different times in my life. My collection contracts and expands. When I first got into this sport seriously, I spent a lot of time and money looking for the perfect rod. I now know that it doesn't exist. And I'm not sure I want it to.
So, those aren't the only reasons I fly fish, but they are fairly representative of why I stand in a river waving a stick or throwing feathers (I stole both of those expressions from better writers than myself). So maybe I can come back to these thoughts in more detail in further posts. I'd certainly like to write more about the places I fish and the people I fish those places with. And that's what this blog is for - to share my thoughts about what fishing means to me.
I think that's enough for now -
'Tight Lines'
Like most fishermen, I fish for a lot of reasons. Catching fish is one of them, but certainly not the only one. I'm not sure if its even the most important one. I'll probably come back to that thought later. Certainly there is something almost magical, or maybe unbelievable about watching your fly disappear in a sudden swirl or holding the electric body of a trout.
For me, a big part of fishing is about being in touch with nature in a particularly powerful way. There's a great scientific article by a sociologist (like me) named Phil Macnaghten (2003) who interviewed several different groups of people, each with a unique connection to the environment through a chosen activity. The fly fishermen spoke most about connecting with the river - about tuning into everything that was happening in and around the patch of river around them. About keening their ears for the sound of a rise and scanning the surface of the water for a likely lie and the shadow of a trout. For these fishermen, fishing was about connecting with the predatory instinct. I believe even catch and release fishing can help one tune into that primordial urge.
Related to the first one, there is also the sense of getting away from it all. I think this one is pretty self explanatory, but I should make the point that one doesn't always need to go too far to get away from whatever 'all of it' is. One of my favorite stretches on the river Rhymney in S. Wales is very near a busy road and a noisy factory. The fish don't seem to mind and neither do I. Peace is subjective. But then again, there are times when only real distance and wild surrounds will do. Fortunately, I find time for both, although I get to do less of the latter than I would like.
I also fly fish for the companionship. I like to fish alone, but with good friends nearby. There's an important distinction there. Even the good Lord himself would get a dirty look from me if he wandered into the water upstream of me. Fishing with friends is best done around the campfire at the end of a long day alone on the water. That doesn't mean you can't stay within sight of each other or pass the occasional wisecrack, but you don't exactly want to be able to hold hands either. Unless they are stuck in a boat together, most fishermen like to spread out.
Finally, I will admit that I also like fishing for the 'kit' - the accoutrement - the stuff. I'm not exactly a 'tackle tart' as they call them over here, but I do keep a stack of fishing catalogues on the back of the toilet. I guess it goes back to my youth when my father and I would look through Cabelas or Bass Pro Shops and dream - him about the boats that he never bought, and me about different rods and reels that I could never afford on my birthday and lawn mowing money. Well, now I'm better able to afford them, but I still can't say I'm satisfied. I own 8 fly rods. Trust me - that's nothing. Each one of my rods is useful, but I probably only use about three of them with any kind of regularity. I've owned many more at different times in my life. My collection contracts and expands. When I first got into this sport seriously, I spent a lot of time and money looking for the perfect rod. I now know that it doesn't exist. And I'm not sure I want it to.
So, those aren't the only reasons I fly fish, but they are fairly representative of why I stand in a river waving a stick or throwing feathers (I stole both of those expressions from better writers than myself). So maybe I can come back to these thoughts in more detail in further posts. I'd certainly like to write more about the places I fish and the people I fish those places with. And that's what this blog is for - to share my thoughts about what fishing means to me.
I think that's enough for now -
'Tight Lines'
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