Quick learner by John C. Street 

So there I was, stuck for a day in a big city, surrounded by a bunch of ‘suits’ trying to impress each other when out of the blue an unassuming gentleman approaches me and the first words out of his mouth are, “I understand you’re a fly fisherman.”   It just seemed like polite conversation at the time but his parting, “we’ll have to get together and dunk a few worms,” seemed sincere.  How little did I know. 

From the bend where we first entered the stream, I had begun to take note of his gear.  At first glance, everything seemed in order.  His equipment, while certainly not brandy-new, was very serviceable and with the exception of his hip boots - which might be a handicap in reaching some of the deeper water - he looked like he had come prepared.   

Unfortunately, despite the hope that arose from this cursory assessment, my expectations - from talking to him on the phone to plan this trip - and the reality of his skills were about to part company.  A quick glance through the fly box he offered for my inspection confirmed it.  I carry a few flies with red, blue and yellow in them but none with all three colors in one fly and certainly none in the tropical bird size of those in his box.  

“It’s been awhile,” he explained as I snapped the lid shut and handed it back to him.  “Grandpa’ passed away when I was twelve and I really haven’t done much fishing since.”   

Perhaps realizing the incongruity between our phone conversations and the reality confronting us, he began to explain.  “My Dad gave me this stuff a couple years ago.  It was my grampa’s.”  Then after a pause to let that sink in, he added, “the moths got into his old flies so I bought these at a bait shop on the way out here from Harrisburg.”    

What I learned as we started walking upstream was that he was being perfectly honest when he asked to get together to “dunk a few worms.”  His grandfather had been a fly fisherman though and he’d always wanted to learn.  Up to this point, the sum and parcel of his experience had been “reeling in the fish that grampa’ caught with this fly rod.”   

He had tried to be vague, he explained, hoping he could bluff his way along until he could pick up a few things from watching me.  I, of course, had paid no attention to the subtle details of our phone conversation. When he told me he’d, “reeled in a few,” I just assumed he was being modest.   

I’d had worse things happen on trout streams, however, so when he asked “how about teaching me a bit since we’re here anyway,” I figured, ‘how bad can it be’?  He had all the necessary gear with the exception of a little bit of tippet material and, of course, flies, but I had plenty of both.   

Up stream from us was a small pool that offered good bank clearance for a beginner’s backcast and likely prospects for a decent amount of action.  But as we rounded the last bend I could see that the pool already had visitors.  

Skirting wide enough to be polite but close enough to inquire about the fishing,

I was more bemused than angry at their sullen responses.  I’d been in their position a few times and understood the implied risk of being too friendly to passing fishermen.  Being good natured is often viewed as an invitation and this hole was too small to sustain the attention of more than two anglers, especially two anglers as ‘expertly’ looking as these two. 

To say they were the picture of sartorial splendor wouldn’t do them justice.  Right down to the broad brimmed hats, metal rimmed polarized sun glasses, name-brand rods and chest waders and bulging-pocketed vests, these men could have been models right off the pages of the latest fly fishing catalog. The audio portion of their persona, unfortunately, didn’t match the visual. 

Realizing that any further attempt to be friendly with this pair would likely lead to rancor, I suggested to my friend that we might be able to find a few willing takers in the deep runs about fifty yards further upstream.  I had really wanted to fish here, the more so when it became apparent that I was towing a rank amateur but stream manners are stream manners and aside from their surly attitudes, they were there first.   

As it turned out, swinging wet flies - a relatively simple technique for a beginner to master - through the runs was very productive and when it seemed like my coaching was more intrusive than instructional, I walked upstream a ways to give my friend some space. I glanced his way every once in awhile to see how he was doing and several times I saw a bow in his rod.  Once, the sound of a fish running line off his reel drew my attention.  He held that one up, about fourteen inches of brown from what I could see, and there was a smile on his face as he lowered it back into the water.   

I’m not sure what made me look back downstream a short time later but as soon as I saw him hunched over, I immediately reeled in and started towards him.  All I could think was that he had gotten sick and was throwing up.  

As I got nearer, however, he turned downstream from me and tried to straighten but was immediately hit with  spasms that doubled him up again.  By the time I got close enough to inquire without having to shout, I realized that he wasn’t sick, he was laughing so hard the tears were running down his cheeks and he was gasping to get his breath.  Unable to answer, he gestured downstream with his rod. 

At first I couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing.  It appeared as though one of the catalog models in the pool below was trying to fetch his friend’s hat out of the crick with the tip of his fly rod.  Shortly, however, a head and a flailing set of arms materialized under the floating hat and began grasping for the end of the rod. And just when it seemed that he might get hold of it, his friend pulled it away and the unfortunate chap slipped back under the water with no sign of the struggle but that broad brimmed hat still floating in the creek.   

The pool had a channel running through the middle of it and apparently one of the ‘experts’ had stepped into this deeper water and found himself in over his head.  As it was only a little deeper than he was tall, he was pushing off the bottom trying to get himself over to the shallows and each time he bobbed to the surface he was imploring his friend to let him get hold of his rod to speed the process.  The other sartorial wonder, as much concerned for his expensive fly rod as he was for his friend’s well being, kept extending his pole towards his buddy only to have second thoughts and snatch it away.   

Apparently, this little drama had been going on for some time.  But just as it began to dawn on me that it might not have a happy ending, the hapless angler made a final push and was able to stand with his head and chest out of the water. 

After he crawled up on the bank, the swimmer and his pal - by now both aware that we had been watching the entire episode - each held up one finger to let us know that everything was OK and stomped off downstream. And then, as though it had never happened, they were gone. 

Once we began to recover from the fits of laughter, we sat on the bank for a bit discussing the idea of working our way down to the pool to finish out our evening.  Despite all the commotion, we could clearly see trout beginning to rise again.  “It looks like I might get to learn how to fish a dry fly,” my friend said as we started downstream.  “Grampa’ always said that was the best.” 

Staying back from the water’s edge, I studied the rises.  “It looks to me like there’s nothing but little stuff working the top,” I offered, “we’ll probably catch bigger fish by working a nymph on the bottom.” When this brought no response, I assured him it wasn’t that hard to learn.  

“If it’s all the same to you,” he said, “I’ll stay with the dry flies.”  And to my puzzled look he added, “I think I’ve learned all I want to know about fishing on the bottom.”