FISHING’S UPPER CAST : Mystique of Fly Angling Lures the Leisure-Rich to the Rivers

On the surface of things, this sage-scented meadow ringed by volcanic peaks is so tranquil that the sound of a fat steer chewing grass resounds across the water.

On the surface, a hand-tied wisp of beige elk hair drifting on the currents of the upper Owens River seems about as dramatic as a long yawn on a summer afternoon.

But surfaces can be deceiving. As the wisp accelerates over a submerged rock, breezes into the shadows of a steep bank, then pirouettes in a small eddy that reflects blue sky and thunderheads, the throbbing theme from “Jaws” swells in the imagination of a newly initiated observer.

Those who miss the drama amid the serenity fail to perceive what the fly fisherman knows , or at least imagines: Somewhere down beneath the shimmering surface, a hungry trout is stalking that piece of fluff the way a great white shark might stalk a swimmer’s legs.

Defining precisely what lures people to fly fishing is almost as difficult as defining what attracts a trout to a certain fly. A gill net and hand grenade would be more efficient. Getting take-out truite at Le Dome would cost less.

But, for whatever reasons, swarms of leisure-rich Americans--especially Y-people--are suddenly flitting about on the banks of rivers and streams and urban casting pools like a new hatch of stoneflys.

John Randolph, the editor of “Fly Fisherman” magazine, blames the whole thing on Jimmy Carter.

Carter was still President when he cast his first hand-tied artificial fly into a river in hopes that a trout would eat it, Randolph said. He found the experience of trying to outsmart a fish so intriguing, he invited a bunch of fly fishing aficionados to Camp David to help him unravel the Gordian knots of the sport.

“He was like someone who had just discovered a new religion,” Randolph said.

An Explosion of Interest

In 1982, “Fly Fisherman” published Carter’s “Spruce Creek Diary” and newspapers across the country reprinted it, triggering the current explosion of interest in fly fishing, according to Randolph.

99% Male Dominated

“About a half million, totally-committed, special interest fly fishermen” now spend most of their leisure time heaving virtually weightless little bits of feather and hair upon the waters of America, and another 5-6 million people are in there but less committed, Randolph figures. Although the sport is about 99% male-dominated, women are taking it up in increasing numbers, Randolph said.

There are several reasons why fly fishing tends to attract folks who have succeeded in other areas of life.

“This is the most technique-intensive sport there is. It’s problem-solving oriented. You can get infinitely better. You’re always arriving.”

And because the sport, at its highest levels, requires knowledge of entomology as well as the craft of fly tying, of hydraulics as well as the art of graceful casting, it offers a camaraderie and “insider-groupiness” that appeals to certain folks, he believes.

This sense of exclusivity is bolstered by the sport’s “high threshold of entry,” Randolph said. “It’s not like spin fishing, where anyone can cast the lure and catch a fish. Few are called and fewer are chosen . . . . That means there’s a snob appeal to it.”

The rite of passage into fly fishermanship, however, is hardly as forbidding as some would make it seem.

Nymphs, Hatches, Tippet

Southern California sports a handful of top-notch fly fishing stores. Walk into any of them and you’ll probably hear ritualistic murmuring about the subtleties of nymphs and fly hatches and tippet. But you’re also likely to find friendly advice, simple how-to books and information on classes, seminars and fishing expeditions complete with guided instruction and all the equipment--starting at about $100 a day.

John Shaffer, who with his brother Dave owns a shop in Santa Monica called “Lords of the Fly,” teaches fly fishing at the Arcularius Ranch, a priivate retreat on the Owens River about six hours north of Los Angeles.

The Owens River wanders for five miles through the ranch, doodling every which way in the brushy meadows as if nature were drunk and daydreaming when she carved the river’s path. A dirt road follows the river, through a cluster of red-roofed cabins rented almost exclusively to fly fishermen and women--some of whom have been coming to the ranch for 60 years or more--and to the fence of an even more exclusive fly fishing ranch--the Inaja Land Company--which reportedly has a total of 25 members.

On a wall of the rustic Arcularius lodge, a print from the 1940s shows several men with 13 large trout dangling on a stringer between them. The picture reflects how much fly fishing has stayed the same and how much it has changed over the years.

Fly fishing gear today isn’t much different than it was in the picture, and the ranch itself still has a 1940s feel to it.

An Old Fashioned Feeling

The lodge is like a country store. An old bubble-type gas pump sets outside the window and a flag snaps languidly in the wind. There’s a good supply of hand-tied flys, a shelf of old bottles and dusty bird’s nests and an old fashioned grocery section, complete with cracker barrels and people standing around in the middle of the day with nothing better to do than talk about the trout’s feeding habits.

What’s changed is that no more such pictures will be posted. The rules of trout fishing have changed, along with the ethics of the sport in general, and today the best trout waters in the country are strictly “catch and release.” With few exceptions, the fish that are landed--with artificial flys on barb-less hooks--must then be set free. Which is why trout the size of those caught in the ‘40s are being caught on certain rivers again.

“The mathematics is simple,” Shaffer said, echoing the views of most conservationists. “It doesn’t take long to eliminate the wild trout if you catch ‘em and keep ‘em.”

On the river, it became clear that if Shaffer decided to keep all the fish he caught, the rate of depletion would rise exponentially. It was also clear that his charges for the next three days--neophyte fly fishermen, there to learn from a master--posed no such threat.

Trout in the Owens river, Shaffer explained, feed largely on aquatic insects. Aquatic insects go through a standard life cycle. An adult lays eggs on the water and soon thereafter, dies. The eggs, in turn, hatch underwater and the nymph wriggles out.

Dry and Wet Flys

Throughout this life cycle, the insects are potential meals for trout. The goal of the fly fisherman is to select a “dry fly” that resembles the insects that are floating on top of the currents, or a “wet fly” resembling the bugs in their underwater state and then persuade a trout to make a meal of that fly.

But trout--especially wild trout--can be picky eaters. The fly has to look appetizing and nothing can tip the fish off that something might be amiss. Like any good predator, the fisherman must sneak up on his prey, creeping quietly along the banks if necessary.

Shaffer’s a good predator. From the moment he clutches a rod, his eyes take on a raptor-like intensity. He sends his line splishing into the water precisely where he wants it. He works his way along the bank with the resolute confidence of an old bear.

To say that fly fishing is addicting is a cliche--but not an overstatement.

Since his novel “The River Why” was published, fly fishing master David James Duncan has received hundreds of fishing fan letters, many of them containing hand-tied flys. He’s received exquisitely crafted flys that look like popcorn, a fly tied to resemble a Marlboro Light butt with water-stained tobacco--”for catching carp in rivers near Chicago”--and “killer cutthroat flys, great big gaudy things that I’ve given to faded hippies to use as earrings.”

Pseudo-Religious Approach

But the book’s author, who lives in Neskowin, Ore., has grown skeptical about certain aspects of the sport he loves, he said, as heprepared to take his rod down to a nearby creek for a quick casting session.

“The way most fishermen approach (fly fishing) smacks of a pseudo-religion . . . I think it’s so mysterious that it overwhelms us and makes us jabber on like I’m doing right now,” Duncan said. “The actual moment when a hidden fish strikes, especially a big one, is so overwhelming that fishermen embarrass themselves. They liken it to sexual experiences, mystical experiences, all sorts of inappropriate things.

“It’s hard to discuss such a charged moment, so what we talk about instead is how to fish every ripple, and how to tie a polyurethane caddis--that kind of stuff.

“What I love about it is that when I’m fly fishing I’m not thinking at all. . . . It’s kind of like being a wild animal, like being a heron. I spend so much time in other parts of my mind that it’s very soothing to spend some no-thought time standing in a river.”

The purist fly fisherman says that tricking a fish into biting an artificial fly is the real thrill. Landing it isn’t so important.

Standing around in the Arcularius lodge on their final day, three fly fishing novices boasted that they had ascended to a new realm of snobbery. Even hooking a fish was beneath them, they said. The reward was simply in casting the fly.

Final Confrontation

Then they went out for a final confrontation with the enormous fish that taunted them from the clear waters of the Owens.

Spreading far apart on the labyrinthine banks, they flailed the water with their lines, sometimes casting smoothly, sometimes snapping their rods like bullwhips.

On a hairpin bend, one of the beginners spotted several lunkers (big fish) floating in a riffle. And the fish spotted him. A half hour later, he crept up again, making sure his shadow fell on the bank.

He sent his line snaking out, then striped off line, watching intently as it carried the small hare’s ear nymph beneath the the current. Hawks circled. The “Jaws” theme crescendoed then faded away. He cast again. And again.

His mind was focused solely on the warm air and the cool water and the movement of the line when a big rainbow trout broke the surface. The beginner whipped back the tip of his rod. The fish sprinted for a hole, then turned. It ran downstream and up against the current. The rod trembled. Minutes later, the trout was no longer able to resist as the beginner eased him into some weeds.

The fly fisherman wet his hands and clutched the exhausted animal. The hook slid out. With guidance from Shaffer, he lowered his prey into the river and gently rocked it till it regained its strength. With one heroic flick of its tail, the trout shot into a riffle. The beginner stepped back onto the shore.

That night as he drifted into the depths of sleep, the fish still quivered in his hands.