Sunday, November 15, 2009
Ode to Fly-fishing
Those well-versed in fly-fishing and its accompanying plethora of literature, understand angling to be more than just sport. For many of us, it's an art form; some might even call it religion. At peace with one's surroundings, angler's look to participate in the cycle of life. We hope to trick these beautiful trout out of their cold, crystal clear pools in order to gaze upon their strange markings and wonderful colors for only the briefest of moments before we must release them back into their underwater worlds. As a purist, I covet the small stream and the native brook trout. My paintbrush of choice is my shortest, most delicate fly rod, selected in order to avoid the trees and brush that engulf the tiny pools I stalk. While a nymph may land me better luck and a bigger fish, a dry fly affords me the possibility to witness the wonderful spectacle that is a live strike on the water's surface. With grace and short bursts of speed at the outset and conclusion of my casts, I gently whip my rod and line back and forth to the rhythm of God's time, eventually bringing my mayfly to rest precisely upon the still water behind a bulging granite boulder. On this eddy it rests until my next cast, as does my soul.