Fly Fishing, Friendship, and a Fish to talk about
I think that there is a great deal of chance in what binds people together. The decisions we make, both big and small, gift us with the people who will end up part of our lives. Where all relationships seem to have the same chance of success in the beginning, I have found that the ones that last share two important qualities: working to stay connected and sharing a passion.
Fortunately, my fishing crew Rich, Jeff, and Ross fit this description and the experiences we shared on and off the water have given me lots of time and opportunity to reflect on what’s most important to me.
The four of us all started fly fishing separately. Rich and Jeff have the most years under their belts and the deepest connection exploring the waters of Western Maine. It was nearly 10 years ago that some twist of fate brought us all together at Black Fly camp on the fabled Rapid River in Northwestern Maine. Ross was the last to join the group and the most youthful. Jeff, Rich and I had known each other pretty well in our mid 20’s. We attended each other’s weddings, shared the joys of starting our families together, and then over time life kind of got in the way and we drifted apart. As our children have moved on, we’ve reconnected through our love of fly fishing and learned that this time apart was easily forded like a rapid in the cool water of a trout stream.
Our trip to Black Fly sparked something in the four of us and we kept at it, finding time to throw a line, share some food, and some laughter each year. I can’t tell what brought each of the other 3 to fly fishing and I know I was one of the last to pick it up. But ever since that first fish was landed in a stream in the Poconos, I’ve been hooked. This trip in June was 20 years in the making closing the loop and drawing tight a knot of friendship threaded between four friends pursuing a passion.
We started planning our big western trip in the dead of winter. To be more accurate, I started planning it and then bludgeoned them into saving their money. Destination? Idaho for 5 days to fish on the South Fork and Henry’s Fork rivers. Getting there would be complicated, for sure. Never could we have anticipated that United Airlines would cancel some 8000 flights in the days before we left, setting off a chain reaction of events that would affect our outbound and return travel.
Jeff and Ross made it on time while Rich and I were delayed a day, arriving in Victor, ID at an AirBnB around the corner from WorldCast Anglers. When we finally settled onto the couch late that evening, I encountered familiar feelings with my friends; jokes, questions and mutual excitement about getting out on the water together, hoping to land a fish to talk about.
Jeff, looking a bit more like “Grizzly Adams”, had spent 3 days traveling from Montana where he’d fished with his son. Ross, trying to balance the pressures of leading a fledgling company and accepting the grace of his wonderful wife at home with their 4 girls, was a study in appropriate distracted enthusiasm. Rich arrived last having spent the previous 24 hours trying to become an honorary “Swifty” having been stuck in Minneapolis where a Taylor Swift concert had taken over the city.
We stayed up late into the evening dancing around the edges of each others lives. Testing the waters of politics and sports hearing about each others kids and spouses and wondering what the days on the water would bring to us. It was clear that the older we got the more we appreciated the ease of our reconnection and the comfort that this realization provided.
We laughed a lot. We laughed at ourselves, we laughed at the confluence of the day’s events and the idiosyncratic personalities of our fishing guides. We also laughed about our aches and pains and our age. Save for Ross, our 55 year old bodies and ingrained habits woke us up before 6am seeking out caffeine from the local coffee shop. Each day we stood at the drive-up window chatting with the shop owner as we awaited our jump start to the morning oblivious to the cars lining up behind us.
Stepping out into the day I was reminded of awe inspiring expanse of the western sky. The clouds dancing across the bright blue background like brush strokes of white painting the scene framed by snow tipped mountains. Driving through the endless succession of Idaho potato fields on a ribbon of black asphalt in an undulating sea of green, it seemed like we would never get to the mountains and the weather could never get to us. I couldn’t help but feel small in an appropriate sort of way, an almost insignificant part of this big beautiful landscape.
Sitting on the banks of the Henry’s Fork, stalking fish, we watched their rhythm and movements, through polarized lenses, hoping to get one cast perfectly timed and landed in front of these selective trout. This form of patience is something I am not good at, but I could appreciate the moment of being with my friends in such stillness enjoying our adult version of parallel play. We seemed to find the quiet and calm energizing - our silence amongst the sounds of the water moving at our feet. The day ended too quickly when we were forced from the water as the sounds of thunder broke the solitude when an impending storm hurdled down the valley towards us.
Our drive back to Victor through torrential rain, hail, and plummeting temperatures served as a strong reminder of how we could go from peace and tranquility to darkness and chaos. In the quality of the changing light we were reminded of how unequal that relationship is between us and mother nature. As the sound of the rain and hail pummeling the hood subsided, carefully curated music from Jeff’s iPhone filled our ears and gave us license to just enjoy the landscape and the rolling of the truck toward town.
The following morning we packed up for a guided overnight trip on the South Fork, all but Jeff had done this trip before and we were anticipating long days, cold evening in camp, and of lots of fish. Anglers head to the South Fork for its tailwater that boasts more than 5000 trout per mile.
Floating a river while casting has its challenges. Whether casting onto the edges of a dark green waterline or into a deep swirling eddy, or up against the bank under branches and bushes, you are constantly mending as the guide tries to keep the boat moving just as fast as the current so that your fly stays in the zone as long as possible. You wait for the slight movement of the indicator, that break of the surface toward a dry, and then set the hook and feel the tug on the line. That feeling of childlike excitement is reminiscent of unwrapping a gift, a curiosity of what might be under the surface. Adrenaline kicks in every time you feel the tug and hook a Brown, Rainbow, Cutthroat or even a lowly Whitefish.
We pulled into camp after a long day with our shoulders sore from the casting of heavy nymph rigs and our bodies exhausted from standing and balancing in the summer sun. The solitude of the box canyon offered a comforting end to the day and invited the four of us into conversations and stories, fish missed and landed — another chance to wade into the currents of our friendship with only the need for sleep beckoning us to call it a night.
I had already landed the biggest fish I’d ever caught, a 22 inch male brown trout, and as the end of the second day on the water was nearing, on the final few miles of water, both Jeff and I were losing focus. Our thoughts of the inevitable return to our lives were invading the calm but our guide was continuing to encourage us to cast and keep the lines in the water. We were willing but less attentive, slower to react to the set, and smiling inwardly at his insistence that big fish lived around every bend and under every bank, knowing “he says that to everyone”.
And so I cast toward the bank, mended as best I could, and followed the indicator - a twitch, the set, and it felt heavy like I’d hooked a log. Then the line cut across the water and I thought it had to be a foul hooked Whitefish. But Geoff our guide screamed, “That’s a big fish!” The rod bent as I fought for control and the line screamed, zipping off the reel, suggesting an unseen monster looking for cover. I kept the pressure on, trying to redirect the dart up river, and then it exploded out of the water. A huge shimmering mass of gold, white and brown, I’d never seen a trout that big before.
The rest of it is a bit of an adrenaline-fueled blur. Me trying to keep just the right amount of pressure on the fish, the guide trying to find some softer water to pull off into and land the behemoth. We drifted toward the bank and I saw the shallow water littered with branches and I shouted, “he’s going to break me off!” The guide spun us out into the current with both of us now facing up river and sternly told me to get the fish up and into the net. I pulled straight up reeling in the line at the top and pulled again. He screamed “Pull!” The splashing fish broke the surface and then darted from the net. One more pull and reel in at the top and somehow the huge net was full with that unseen monster. He slammed the net into my hand and said, “Hold it in the water and hold on!”
I’m not sure why the 2x tippet held or the fly firmly set into the upper hooked jaw of this male Brown trout or how I kept the fish in the net as we ran a set of rapids…. but it all worked out, the gods of fishing were smiling on me that afternoon.
That night at dinner in Jackson we started talking and planning for our next trip. Who knows where it will be or if we will be able to make it work. As incredible as it is to have caught a fish like this one, being able to share it with 3 friends who most appreciate what it is to fly fish was the gift I’ll always remember. It is through these moments, thinking back when the rods are packed up, that I realize how important these friendships are to me. I’ll always make time for these three knowing I’ll never catch a bigger fish and hoping to never get too old to stop wading into their lives.
It was a really big fish…