Fly-fishing, like most endeavors in life, has a beginning and an end, and the distance between the two points varies. As with countless other things in life, particulars of the “in between” depend on the individual. The adventures that present themselves to the go-anywhere-do-anything modern-day adrenaline junkie are endless. If one so desires, a well-healed fly fisherman with a fat wallet can, with very little effort, be standing knee deep in a beautiful, little mountain stream somewhere in the Smokies gracefully drifting a size eighteen Parachute Adams over a feeding brown in the morning. Then strip the waders, rinse the gear, pack the bags and within a matter of hours be downing margaritas and enjoying happy hour somewhere in Central America.
Assuming a return to sobriety (or maybe not) the next morning one could be standing in the cockpit of a sixty-foot battle-wagon holding a fly rod the size of an old fashioned tent pole, constructed with the best modern-day, space-age fibers available to the public outside of NASA. Coupled to this monstrosity of a fly rod is a fly reel made from the finest lightweight, high-tech materials engineered by man. Naturally, one pitches a fly that resembles a ragtag feather duster to a sailfish or possibly an oversized blue marlin. I know there are people out there in the fly-fishing community who might be wondering (and with good reason), why in the world anyone would want to do such a thing? Because, quite frankly, it’s fun.
If memory hasn’t failed me (though it’s entirely possibly it has), that is exactly what fly-fishing is supposed to be about—FUN. I know I just opened up a can of worms and that somewhere a purist probably fell out of his chair, or at the very least felt a sharp twinge, as if someone had stuck a filet knife deep into his chest. All those great, immortal traditionalists out there, likely named Fred G. Sanford (the G. stands for “Great Fly Fisherman”), are exclaiming in a chorus: “This is the big one. Elizabeth, I’m coming to join you, honey. I’ll be the one with his foot stuck through a computer monitor.” Well, I’m sorry Fred, but fly-fishing is not quite as pure and simple as it once was. The days of Isaac Walton have long since faded, and so trying to make sense of the modern fly fisherman is, quite simply, a waste of time and energy—why waste what little gray matter we have left?
It’s as if we have come full circle. It seems that every time I push off in one of my friends’ flats boats to spend the day ripping the lips off some cagey bonefish or getting lit-up by some oversized poon, there are always at least a few spinning rods and at least a bait-caster or two tucked under the gunnels.
Furthermore, if you take a peek in the live-well, more often than not you will probably find a half-dozen live crabs and a few dozen hand-picked shrimp and, in most cases, a pinfish or two. Hey, I don’t make this stuff up, I am merely faithfully reporting facts as they are presented to me. I decided long ago that it’s not worth getting your waders up in a pinch, since, clearly, we have passed the point of no return. So, if you can’t beat them, join them.
The point of this column—if there really is one—is to get out of the house or the office and go fishing, and to not be too hung up by the traditions and rules of purist fly-fishing, if that’s not what pleases you as an angler. Catching a big brown or a cooler full of redbreasts does require getting up off of the couch, though—even in this high-tech world, we still have to physically participate in some things to make them worthwhile, to make a memory or two. And after all, there really are only so many Saturday morning infomercials one can sit through, anyway. Fortunately, you don’t have to pack the bags and jet off to exotic locations, or jump from one continent to the other in the same trip—unless you want to, of course, but then by all means be sure to write about it (and share some great photographs). For the rest of us, however, there is usually a happy little honey hole not too far from the house or office. In most cases, you’re really only limited by your imagination.
Wishing you tight lines (of all kinds), my friends!
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