How I Became Hooked

My oldest son recently turned ten and asked for a fly rod for his birthday.  Naturally I was overjoyed at this and had fun picking out a rod and reel combo for him to use.  In the process, I started to remember how I got my start in fly fishing.  Unlike my son, my father was not a fly fisherman.  In fact, growing up we always teased my father about his inability to catch a fish.  He just couldn't do it.  So whatever fishing knowledge I have came from my grandpa.  When I asked him about fly fishing, he was more than up for teaching me the basics.

Grandpa lived (and still does) in Maryland, which was about a day's drive from my childhood home in Ohio. During a summer visit, he pulled out his old fly rod and taught me the basics of casting in his backyard.  I literally stood on his back porch for hours practicing my cast.  10-1-10, over and over.  Occasionally he would come outside and make some corrections to my technique, but I was enthralled by the rhythm and cadence of casting.  I envisioned monster rainbows sipping dry flies from the surface of the lawn and by the end of the evening, I felt I had perfected casting.  Clearly, I was a a teenager at the time!

The next day we headed into the mountains where I could try my hand at catching fish on a fly.  The water was clear and cool and I was immediately taken by how I could see the trout darting around the riffles and pools.  I tied on a dry fly and began to cast.  Unlike Grandpa's backyard, the stream was covered by a canopy of branches which seemed to attract my fly.  Over and over I would have to pause and untangle my fly.  Grandpa was content to leave me to learn by trial and error as he methodically worked the pools up and down the stream.  Although it was many years ago, I remember finding a deep pool and looking down at the rainbows lying near a steep embankment.  i would cast my fly near them, but they did not budge.  And I was hooked.  For some reason, the notion that this must be the hardest form of fishing made me want to succeed all the more.

I was skunked that day, though Grandpa was not.  That Christmas I received my first fly rod, a Cortland.  I took that fly rod all over south western Ohio catching bluegills and a few small bass here and there.  Later, it moved west with me as I began college and eventually settled in Idaho, though by that time I had already replaced that rod with something newer.  Now, I have the good fortune to pass this tradition along to my son, who will hopefully have the good fortune of seeing large trout mock his attempts at presenting a dry fly.