by Brian Dickey

Created on: June 30, 2009   Last Updated: July 02, 2009

It has been said that fly fishing is a game of deception. Of trying to manipulate a piece of fur or arranged feathers to entice a hungry (or not so hungry) fish to strike. As the ice-clear water slides along the banks, crests over boulders and speaks a language long forgotten, I spy my quarry. Its gold-brown body flashes as it rises to a fly on the surface and just as quickly, vanishes into the depths. How many times do you throw a fly before you give up? How many different flies do you use? What size tippet do you use? Nymph or dry? All these are questions that float through one's mind but somehow are not grasped in the heat of the moment.

I will the fish to take, my hands and body tense. That's when the eyes start playing their tricks. When every piece of water-borne debris and ripple become the cue to set the hook. Or, as is often the case, when I pull the rod tip high and watch the fly flutter above the water unencumbered and free floating.

It has also been said that trout live in beautiful places and that is why the fly fisher pursues them. The high mountains, cold clear water and the abundance of pure nature as far as the eye can see. To bring work with you is impossible. To become distracted and actually hear your own breathing is unnerving at first but it is something cleansing and focusing. I can honestly say that no matter how many fish I catch, every time I feel that familiar pull and the click of the reel, it is like the first fish I have ever caught. My heartbeat quickens, my movements grow quick...my cigar clenched in my teeth. I do not remember how I hooked the fish, nor the technique that I used. All I feel is a sporadic tug and an electricity through the tight thin line. I look at that leader and I hear it "pluck" as if it will break. As if it is all that connects me to that bronze trout. My heart races again as I realize that, indeed, all that connects me to a good fish is that gossamer thread. Between the fly and the leader and the light rod, not to mention the knots, our connection is tenuous at best. I'm not sure where the skill comes in, I'm not sure if that exists or if it is just a matter of who makes the majority of the mistakes. All that I know is I need to do unnatural, mechanical things and the fish does what comes natural. My work is stilted and hesitating, his is instinctive, quick and decisive.

Time is nothing and eventually, I bring up enough line to see that trout and see the fly perched at the tip of his nose. Soon, the fish is at the shallow water at my feet, its belly scraping the gold-flecked gravel. It's calm save for my breathing and my racing heart. It's one of those singular moments where you look around and then remind yourself that no one else is there. No one that is except for that writhing creature with those large eyes looking up at you. It takes a moment to gently grasp the fly and slide it from the trout, it takes another to turn the fish toward the open water from where it came. Remember that flash? That gold-brown glimpse? You see it again as that beautiful trout hurtles itself into deeper water.

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