First I tied on a bead-head hare's ear nymph (#14--just had a hunch) and tried nymphing for the first 60-yard section of stream I fished near my house on Wissahickon Creek (one of a few Philadelphia County trout streams).
No luck. Of course, there's a good chance I was doing something wrong--spooking fish with my positioning, not hitting the nooks and crannies where fish were laying, not fishing my nymph deep enough (the water was muddier than usual) and there's always the possibility that it was a combination of all things I could've done wrong--who knows.
At least I accepted the fact that something would have to change. And instead of immediately putting the blame on myself (even though I knew that's where the problem was almost definately generating from) I changed my nymph pattern to a bead-head pheasant tail (#16).
"This should work," I confidently whispered to myself, just in case anyone was around within ear shot.
I moved upstream to the next set of riffles paralled by a deep shoot where I could practice some textbook nymphing. I didn't have a textbook though, and I didn't have waders. They were back home in my mom's garage (not the best place for a fly fisherman's waders in mid-October). So I was loosing feeling in my legs from the knees down. The numbing sensation was creeping higher. It was hard to concentrate, and even harder to wade out to the small rock that gave me the positioning I needed on the fast channel I was fishing along the far bank of the stream. But there I was, lost in the rythmic repitition of flip--drift--strip--flip.
Another hour went by. Another sensation of confidence fleeing out the back door engulfed me. And so again, I pulled out my fly-box, fumbling it around in my blue fingers as my teeth grinded away. Even though I was only knee high, even my hair was nearing the water temperature. I understood that this was my last chance at changing flies before I would have no mobility in my fingers, so I knew that this fly should be a good choice if I were to have one last shot at a fish.
I scanned over my fly selection (a not-so-hefty-variety of 15 or so) and opted to fish the biggest, ugliest one I had: a bead-head, black Wooly Bugger (in a extra long #6). I tied up to my 5X tippet and began to cast downstream to where the fast channel I was flipping the pheasant tail up into fanned out about 30 yards downstream from me. Once my Wooly hit near the bank, I would strip periodically back toward me across the water, giving it a jig once in a while and letting the weight of the bead head fall down the 3 feet or so to the bottom of the stream before jigging again, trying desperately to make my fly look more excited than I was.
On my fifth cast (sixth maybe? tenth?) I gave a jig and there was weight. I subconciously guessed it was a snag, but I lifted high and hard, knowing that if this was a fish, it would be the first one in a long time for me on the Wissahickon, and about five minutes later I was looking at a pretty little brown that I took home for dinner with me. It was roughly 10 inches, slender, and caught by way of good luck and bass bug--an example of the way unconventionality always seems to seep into fly fishing.
So I finally had my trout, but I still wasn't satisfied. The strange feeling ocurred in me that I'm sure has ocurred in all fishermen at one point or another, the one that unknowingly creeps in and you realize, "maybe I can catch fish with these fake bugs."
So I went back three days later to the Wissahickon, walking about a quarter mile up stream from where I landed the brown to a hole that had strikingly similar characteristics. Here the stream was wider and the channel shoot was a bit deeper maybe around 3 and half feet or so, faster, and fanned out wider at it's tail end, all clues that lead me to believe there were bigger, meaner fish here. Big, powerful rainbows, maybe?
Of course, I hadn't taken my Wooly bugger off since the last time I visited the creek. That would definately bring bad luck, and since I had taken a trout on it, I figured there would be no point in taking it off until it unraveled or got snagged on the bottom of the stream (which would eventually happen on the third visit of the week to the creek anyway).
And so there I was at it again, casting far downstream into the tail end of the channel and stripping back across the fan of water. I knew there was trout holding here because of my sixth sense that very few fishermen are able to obtain throughout a lifetime of fishing (and also because the Fish Commission's stocking schedule said that the stream was stocked with a few thousand fish only two weeks prior).
After a while of my downstream method, I tried flipping up into the whiter parts of the channel and drifting the bugger downstream. Twenty minutes of this went by, and I went back to the farther casts downstream, jigging back toward me. I'm a firm believer that impatience plagues us all. And again, the numbing sensation was creeping higher.
I saw a fish rise 30 yards out in front of me, downstream, and the predator in me awoke. I crouched down a bit lower (not like that would have done anything, but if anyone was watching, it would have looked like it did) and casted at the rising trout. I casted at the area some 15 times or so. No luck.
So I went back to simply casting at the bank, letting the current swing my fly out into the fanning channel and strip--jig-sink--jig--strip.
Just as my discouragement had convinced me that these next casts would be the last few, I held my cork tighter, squinted my eyes harder and prepared myself for the end. I swung my line back and fired it out strait and true at the bank. It swung out, and I became the Wooly bugger dancing in the water. I became the rainbow licking his ever-so-slightly hooked jaw (not really, but for the sake of the story, bare with me). About 20 yards in front of me, just at where the ledge I was positioned on creased down into the channel, the rainbow took the bugger and ran. I lifted, and life finally took on meaning and purpose once again. I landed the rainbow, and feeling hungry again from a hard day of fishing, put him in my vest, took a few more casts at the bank downstream, and started on the good walk back to my truck.
Maybe I was getting the hang of this flyfishing stuff after close to 4 years of pursuing the art, or the tradition, or the hobby--however you classify fishing with fly. Acutally, I like to think of it as a funny little game that resembles life in a strikingly large number of ways. The more you go about it, the more confused you get. But every so often it works out, you eat good, and you are reminded of why you love it so much. Just don't leave your waders in your mom's garage.
