Catch and Release

Some might say a good fly fisherman is like watching a good artist carve out a painting only the fisherman’s canvass is the sky and the river is where he draws his paint.
This, of course, is a good fly fisherman.

A bad fly fisherman is an artist of another sort. With his four-ounce rod, he carves out the most amazing knots, the kind of knots my mother dreamed of untying while watching Dallas when I was a child, knots that are twisted and turned and dangerously equipped with a hook, a puzzle even Hudini himself couldn’t get out of-- and it took one cast and less than a second to create.

A bad fly fisherman is also a master of comedy. One good gust of wind, and -- kaboom! -- he’s all tangled up in the line. This is also the exact moment when he usually decides to call it a day-- only the darn wind keeps blowing his fly just out of reach of his hand, so he looks like a cat pawing at the air.

Fishing with a bad fly fisherman is also dangerous because he is liable to inflict injury on others by catching them instead of the fish .

But I have to admit, many beginning fly fishermen are quite focused as they spend much of their time trying to keep things in the correct order line, leader, fly-- or was it fly, leader, line? It’s quite simple, if you keep things in the right order, your chances of creating a rat’s nest of a knot and hooking your neighbor’s leg are greatly reduced-- plus, you won’t look as though you are chasing a fly with an enormous fly swatter.

Some might say I am successful fisherman because every time I fish, I manage to catch something.

I have just about reached my limit with my fly rod.

Few months ago, my husband purchased a fly rod and all the accutriments that go with it for his birthday-- and then promptly gave it all to me. What he really wanted for his birthday was a fishing partner, and I guess I fit the bill.

When I squished up my face into a tight smile, his enthusiasm only grew.

“Flyfishing is easy,” he said. “Don’t worry. We will have so much fun, and I can teach you. A roll cast is like hitting a fly with a fly swatter.”

I flung my arms like a 10-year-old in a cat fight; the line knotted.

“OK pretend you are chopping vegetables,” he said.

I worked at becoming a master cat fighter; he worked at become a master knot untangler.

When I finally manged to get the line to the middle of the creek, he practically stepped right in front of me to keep me from reeling it in.

“Leave it there,” he said. “Now walk with it down the creek. If the strike indicator sinks, pretend you are the Statue of Liberty and pull down on the line and raise you rod in the air.”

“What?” I said.

“To set the hook-- the Statue of Liberty sets the hook,” he said.

I could see wavering masses of immigrant fish coming toward my beacon of hope-- because they knew my immigration policies were so tight there was no way they’d land a spot on the banks of Hat Creek.

This is not to say I have never caught anything. It is true. I have almost reached my limit.

I caught the bridge near the Bambi Inn in Butte Meadows, and my daughter had to climb up and untangle it.

I also caught some telephone lines in the middle of the street while “perfecting” my cast.

I caught various species of river sludge and plants.

I caught my husband's line several times.

And I even managed to catch myself fly fishing.

No, dear readers, I didn’t catch myself fly fishing (as in doing it correctly); I literally caught myself. I hooked myself in the arm.

There I was on the banks of the Kings River in Kings Canyon National Park -- with a fly coming out of my arm. I looked diseased.

My husband acted like a true gentlemen.

“We’ve got to get that fly out,’ he said. “I’ve caught fish with that fly; I need it.”

I poked the hook through the over side so my arm, gave him the wicked eyebrow stare, and he cut off the fly with his pliers. The neutered fly fell to the ground.

“You’re going to fish again, right?” he said.

“Yes, I haven’t reached my limit,” I said. “The only living thing I’ve caught is myself.”

Previously published in the "Paradise Post" by Bonnie Sitter