Fly fishing is a skill passed down by great generations of anglers. Many anglers I meet in shops or on the water will tell you it is a family tradition. Otherwise, I know plenty who have been introduced to the sport by experienced friends or guides. This leaves a population of folks who discover fly fishing on their own; true pioneers in their own right. Fly fishing can be a complicated activity, one that only increases in difficulty for those with no previous knowledge or background of the sport. Without casting instruction, the guidance to read water, or a pre-established biological background, fly fishing is arguably one of the most challenging hobbies to pick up from scratch. This is a lesson I had to learn the hard way.
I was introduced to fly fishing at a very young age in a relatively unique way. My father was born to a large, Irish Catholic family that can be traced to two places: County Mayo, Ireland, and Chicago, Illinois. Coming from the west of Ireland, it was probably considered that South Side Chicago would be the final destination of our kinsfolk. This decision was only solidified as my family deepened their roots to the city, becoming teachers and police officers who truly committed their lives to serving their community. For any of the family members to move would be an astonishing decision, one that would require deep contemplation and introspection. Or maybe this choice would simply require a viewing of Robert Redford’s classic film adaptation of A River Runs Through It. Thank God for Brad Pitt and thank God for the nineties, because without that movie I would not be here today. My father packed his belongings and headed for Missoula, Montana, where he met my mother and started his life anew.
In somewhat ironic fashion, I was never taught how to fly fish. I grew up hearing stories about my dad’s days in the backcountry pursuing slashing cutthroats and buttery brown trout, but that was about the extent of my fly fishing upbringing. As far as my father was concerned, his days of fishing the blue ribbon streams of Montana were long gone, a distant memory as he relocated to Washington. My interest in the sport remained dormant for my adolescent years. Besides these stories from my father, I had no experience with fly fishing at all. I never saw anyone fly fish in Spokane (not to discredit the underground community dedicated to fishing native redband trout residing in the area). This changed when I found myself living in Missoula, Montana, following in my father’s footsteps to discover the adventure that lie within this wild state.
There are many towns across the country where one can live a life without exposure to fly fishing. Missoula is not one of them. It would be practically impossible to avoid running into one of the many fish sculptures, fly fishing murals, shops. Popular local beers are named Double Haul IPA, Fish On! Pale Ale, The Hatch IPA. You can even buy flies at any of the Ace Hardware stores in town. I remember walking across the Madison Street Bridge and being mesmerized by a row of folks fly fishing below the DoubleTree Inn, and quickly learning that this is a daily occurrence in the summers here. There was not a single moment that started my fishing career; it was a true subliminal brainwashing that ended with me walking out of Cabela’s with a cheap rod and reel starter kit in hand.
For how obvious and inviting the fly fishing culture is in the area, approaching of Missoula’s storied rivers for the first time is an entirely different story. Montana’s big sky never felt bigger, and I never felt smaller as I proceeded toward the rolling blue waters of the Bitterroot. It is a surprisingly overwhelming ordeal. My experiences at the river were usually synonymous with relaxing at the bank or floating down the current with a beer in hand. Now that this is a mission to catch trout, my perception multiplies. First of all, the river is alarmingly loud. This inhibits my ability to think as clearly and simultaneously reduces my sense of security. I have a constant feeling to look over my shoulder, just to ensure nobody is watching my pathetic attempts at casting. Or to check for bears, another concern for a Washingtonian transplant. When I step into the water, it feels cold and strong. My feet are weighed down in the water, and the unstoppable force of the current makes me uneasy. One false step will have me on my ass, and this happens more than a few times in those initial days on the water.
Now I must decide where to cast. Fish are in the water, right? I guess I’ll just cast there. No fish? Might as well cast to the same spot again. There was no rhyme or reason to my early fishing process. I often found myself casting to the middle of the stream, where my bug would nearly bounce off the water until quickly being swallowed whole. No matter what time of year it was, I only casted a cheaply made Morrish Hopper or a ridiculously large Purple Haze. These were the only flies I could get to stay somewhat afloat, as I had no understanding of floatant or fly dry. Mending was another completely foreign concept, and this did not help my drift situation one bit. How was I ever going to catch a fish? After a good handful of completely fishless outings, I figured it was time to swallow my pride and consult one of the many local Missoula fly shops.
Walking into a fly shop can be an intimidating experience. Most of them are absolutely stuffed to the gills with any and all fishing equipment imaginable. Filled with rods and reels, varieties of lines, endless boxes of flies and fly tying materials, shops can be hard to navigate even for the avid fisherman. As I attempted to navigate the complexities of this alien environment, a shop associate approached me. “What are you looking for?” I really had no idea where to even start. Do I tell him, “Everything”? Confessing my lack of knowledge and experience felt like a mortal sin among this setting. A shameful endeavor for my considerable ego. Instead, I played it cool. “I’m good man. Thanks!”. Walking out of the shop was a relief. In my hand were more Morrish Hoppers and large Purple Haze. Back to exactly where I started.
Fast-forward two years, I had yet to catch a fish. The only improvement made in my game was a slight increase in my casting distance, and maybe some added patience. I had come to accept the fact that trout are not real, and if they were, they must have a personal grudge against me. Trying not to allow my frustration to dwell, I decided on bringing my fly rod with me for an overnight camping trip to the remote mountains of Idaho with a few buddies from school. If anything, the case worked as a formidable hiking stick, and if we were to encounter a body of water, I could pass the time by practicing my casting. Fly fishing clearly did not involve much catching for me, but I had become fond of the practice of throwing and retrieving line, at least as a source of cheap entertainment.
With some time to kill after we arrived at our camp, our small crew decided to walk down to a mountain lake we passed previously on our journey. Hiking stick in tow, I followed my friends as we descended into the area containing a deep pool of crystal clear water, mirroring the mountains above. A beautiful sight, I was content to stand on an emerging boulder near the bank and once again struggle to catch the elusive species I doubted even existed. After gearing up my Purple Haze, I made a rather pitiful first cast that awkwardly plopped on the water a mere ten feet from me. Immediately, something from the depths slammed it, taking my fly deep below the surface. This moment shocked me with excitement. I quickly jolted my rod up to the sky to fight this animal I finally had at the other end of my line, praying that I would be able to finish the job. Stripping in my catch until it was close enough to manage, I grabbed my line and pulled a rather small, yet stunning native cutthroat trout out of the water. I let out a primitive yell, followed by comical laughter. “Holy shit, I caught a rainbow trout!” I misdiagnosed to my friends. As far as I was concerned, I was officially a fly fisherman.
The passion I had for this sport greatly intensified after my experience finally catching fish. It was possible. Fish ARE real. Success is something that I am capable of and can invest in. I wanted nothing more than to relive that experience, but in order to recreate this moment, I knew I needed help. It was becoming clear to me that I was only limiting my growth by refusing to ask questions when I was in the presence of other anglers. My stubbornness needed to take a backseat, and I needed to admit I was a beginner who desperately needed help. So that is exactly what I did the next time I went into my local fly shop. Instead of being ridiculed or spited by the shop assistant, I was welcomed and educated. Despite my fears, it became a delightful experience, and I began to improve rapidly.
Learning to fly fish is a challenging endeavor, yet a rewarding one if one has the willingness to stick with it. It takes patience and persistence to approach the water every day in this demanding search for excitement. But despite the intense effort it takes to catch fish on the fly, the challenge is one of the most attractive qualities about it. If fly fishing was easy, anglers would be catching massive trophy fish left and right, but the reward would not be nearly as enjoyable. The reward is not only the beautiful animal that you have an opportunity to interact with, but the science of the process it takes to finalize a catch. The tedious hours spent outside in cold conditions, the time it took to research the local hatch, the mend that took years to perfect for the ideal drift. What used to seem like the worst part of fly fishing, is ultimately the best. As I have come to discover, beginners are not the only ones tested; advanced anglers also constantly struggle to tackle their next objective within the sport. Fly fishing is a challenge worth embracing, with a meaningful pay-off that justifies itself time and time again.
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