Fly fishing, like riding a bicycle, is something you do by yourself. Unlike activities that embody boredom like solitaire, or loneliness like eating alone in a restaurant with a pathetic half bottle of wine, fishing solo is a natural and happy state.
Growing up in Indiana and latter Connecticut, the rivers we fished were always a drive of at least an hour and consequently I always went fishing with my father. Since he was angry with the world most of the time, and me along with it, I spent most of my early fishing years in a perpetual state of anxiety. I don’t think it ever occurred to me that I might fish by myself and enjoy it.
Liberation came in the form of my first motorcycle and with it the ability to traverse the landscape like a Bedouin on a camel. Towards the end of my junior year in high school I became friends with a fellow motorcycle nomad and the topic of fishing came up. I decided to break the chains of slavery. One afternoon after school I tied my waders and other tackle on the back of the motorcycle with bungee cords and my Wright & McGill fiberglass rod across my back with an improvised sling. My friend Claude, who had a BMW I envied, appeared with a fancy fly vest over his leather jacket. His expensive tackle sent a wave of insecurity through me. “He will fish like a professional guide and will positively haul trout out of the river,” I thought to myself. In those days the upper Housatonic in North Western Connecticut was the place I was most used to and we pointed our motorcycles in that direction and roared out of West Hartford. It was a perfect afternoon, not too warm for wearing leather, not too cold to enjoy the ride. Suburbs gave way to farms, orchards and fields and everywhere was glorious, golden and green.
We stopped at Cornwall Bridge, parked the bikes and stood on the bank watching steadily rising browns. I won’t pretend to remember what the hatch was. When in doubt I always tried a terrestrial first, and to this day, still do. I tied on an ant and made a cast. I wish I could report a performance worthy of Izaak Walton, but almost the minute I got into the river I went ass over tea kettle into the water. No more ignominious fate can befall a fisherman. It is far worse than a beauty pageant contestant falling down the stairs in a bathing suit in front of 50 million viewers. Mortified I got out of the river and dried myself in the sun while my friend fished. It was then and there I became determined to fish by myself.
The following afternoon I retraced my steps. Thankfully the trout had forgotten me and were sipping mayflies from the slick surface of a pool below a riffle. After a few false casts I landed my fly, I think I went for a beetle pattern, so that it bounced off of a boulder and fell with the natural plop of a hapless insect onto the water.
Bang. The River Gods had waited 17 years for me to approach their temple alone and I was rewarded. Cast after cast I hooked rising browns and only when I had lost my last beetle did I pack it in and head for home. Never had the world seemed so bright and full of promise. Never had the future held such dreams of glory. I could fish on my own, and it was wonderful.
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From the War Canoe
by David Bershtein
Blog | Fishing With Daughters
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