The Emotional Angler and the Rainbow

The range of emotions experienced on a typical fly fishing trip can be exhausting. When I return home tired and worn out, it’s not always from catching fish, or the lack thereof, that causes this, but a rollercoaster of fluctuating emotions. Not so long ago, I was sitting by the river, reflecting on all the varying feelings that catching a single fish can stir, from tying the fly to fishing with it.

As it should be, most fishing trips start long before the casting and wading begins. My optimistic fish-catching attitude starts when sitting at the fly tying bench preparing for the next fishing trip. Attempting to recreate a deceptive fly from feathers, fur, and synthetics brings wandering thoughts of what this fly will catch. Usually, I hold the first completed fly of a new pattern in my fingertips, cradling this creation and imagining a large hooked-jawed brown trout or some other beast attached to it.

Some fishing trips are more emotional than others. A good example involved a recent trip to fish a stream’s headwaters. I hadn’t fished there in a while and was totally overcome with flashbacks of hungry fish from previous outings. But it was late winter, and the weather had been fiercely cold, so expectations weren’t the highest.

A few flies were tied the night before and placed in my crowded nymph box. I keep telling myself that I will perform a fly box cleanout on a rainy afternoon to make room for new patterns, but these old ones keep working. Instead, I stuffed a few new ones in there, much like my wife adding three more shoe boxes to her closet. I’m told there’s always room for more.

While driving along a small, potholed, paved road the following day, I saw my destination off to the right, running through a beautiful meadow pocket nestled deep in the mountains. The stream sliced this meadow in unequal proportions and was protected on two sides by hardwoods. The dirt road leading to the parking area meandered across an old wooden bridge. Curiosity forced me to stop the truck and look at the stream below. A hint of color from a recent rain made it ideal for fishing and the water level was perfect.

Thrilled to be here, I hoped there would never be a day when a fishing trip didn’t bring a high level of excitement. As I started to pull on my waders, I looked around at the surrounding mountains protecting this place and wondered who and what had trampled these ancient hills before me. The beautiful setting was captured in my memory’s fishing Dewey decimal system, but then I remembered I was here to catch a fish and could ponder those scenery thoughts later.

Ambling down to where I was starting, I inhaled the cold air, which had a clean freshness about it. Today would be a great day. I could feel it and almost taste it.

I leaned against a beech tree and watched the foamy water cascade along the far bank. Confidently, I cast toward the far bank and held the rod tip steady as the fly drifted naturally. I had imagined a fish bending the fly rod long before my first cast, and now I was waiting for that moment to occur.

I thought this fly would be a fish producer and keep my fly rod flexed all day. My first cast floated through the currents, and nothing happened. I cast again with confidence, knowing a hungry fish was there waiting. Still nothing. Again and again, with no results. Surprised at the lack of fish attention, I remained determined to keep standing behind this knee-deep rock ledge with concrete feet and continue casting.

Finally, persistence and patience paid off. Several small rainbows were netted and released. After realizing I had grabbed only one fly out of the six previously tied, I retied the knot into the hook eye again for insurance purposes. The other five flies lay helplessly on my fly-tying bench, worthless at this moment.

Creeping upstream deliberately to avoid spooking the unknown quarry below, I saw it tucked to the bankside of a large rock. It’s tail made a small wake as it fed on the inside foam line between the rock and the bank. I thought there must be an undercut bank or a deep pocket holding this fish there.

This was a big fish, and it was mine to fool. Calculating my chances of not spooking it would improve if I could change my casting angle, I began the stalk. No other thoughts interrupted this intense focus. Every muscle and nerve felt heavy with anticipation. I was determined to make that first cast count. The hunt was on.

Finding a small clump of bushes, I crouched low for concealment. There he was, his big body interacting with the currents and enveloping the entire pool. My mind told the rest of me to, “Not mess this up!” Self-pressure to perform can strain the senses even when no one is watching.

“Focus on the fish,” I whispered out loud. “Concentrate and lay the fly in the riffles above and let the currents do the rest.”

Bullseye, the cast was executed perfectly, and the nymph drifted downstream as planned. The line stopped and I quickly lifted the rod tip, and the river exploded like an underwater bomb detonating. My fish was hooked. He ran downstream and I chased him. I got weak-kneed at his incredible size and agility every time he jumped. I needed to stay focused and get below this fish if there was any chance of successfully netting him.

Once below him, the fish raced back upstream with several more acrobatic ensembles. Time stops when an angler hooks a big fish. It’s a consuming overture that blocks all other thoughts. Applying constant side pressure from the rod tip started wearing down this titanic rainbow. I could feel the fish beginning to tire but still undulating against the rocky bottom, looking for anything to unsnag the embedded hook. I was starting to gain line back and control again.

Sometimes, during a time of battle, a fish’s weakness breeds an angler’s overconfidence. I unsnapped the long-handled net from my back and had it dangling for easy access while carefully trying to lead the fish to the bank. Switching rod hands, I searched my fishing vest pocket for the waterproof camera when the rainbow surged again, jumping violently to signal the fight wasn’t over. This explosion was instantaneous and without warning. With one hand tucked inside the vest, the other was left to pull back on the rod to ensure constant pressure.

Caught up in the excitement, I yanked the rod straight back and candy-caned the tip as the fish surged again. With a loud snap like a 22-caliber rifle, the rod tip slid down the fly line towards the fish. There I was, standing in the river with a camera and net in one hand, a broken fly rod attached to a trophy rainbow in the other.

“What to do next?” I thought. Trying to regroup and focus, I was determined to land the fish instead of getting mad and upset about breaking a rod. Human error caused the mishap and a minor speed bump. Not getting perturbed helped me to think clearly.

With only half a fly rod and no leverage, the only way to successfully land the fish was to beach it on the shallow shoals below. Frustrated, I watched the broken rod tip telescope from the top of the fish. Praying for a miracle, I began inching the fish downstream. In less than thirty seconds, my emotions had gone from pure excitement to confidence, then rage, coupled with humility and reverence.

As I cautiously waded downstream, I photographed this massive rainbow several times underwater. Every time my arm was underwater to snap a few photos, the fish would decide to thrash. Finally, swinging the fish around to where it could be netted, he bolted again, breaking the hook off as I slid my net quickly underneath. My rod tip was left helplessly bouncing in the current. I salvaged it later and crawled over to the bank to allow my racing heart time to take a pit stop after releasing the fish.

After a few deep breaths, I quit staring at the river and looked up. Even without the leaves, when looking through the hardwood tree tops, the grizzled, somber hues of gray were beautiful. I was blessed. Time to head back to the truck and get another fly rod. After all, I was here to catch a fish. And I never turned down a fish willing to bite a fly!

Mike Watts is the Publisher of riversandfeathers.com. He is also the author of Riverbank Memories and the children’s book Pond Fishing with Papa. Both can be ordered from Amazon or Barnes and Noble.