A Few Snags in Mastering Art of Fly-Fishing : The sport conjures an image of skillfully casting a line while surrounded by nature. But in reality, the requisite skill may not come naturally.
As a rule, art is truly appreciated only by those who understand it, which explains why after 20 minutes of browsing paintings that look like mud smears most people start looking for the cafeteria. Still, even for the ignorant, fly-fishing--an artful sport if ever there was one--possesses an undeniable beauty; man and stream and a cloud of gossamer line filling the sky. No one jabs squirming bait on a hook, no one spills beer or fish guts on your shoes and no one barfs, at least not in the movies and PBS specials that define your exposure to the sport.
Intrigued, you call Jerry Bliss. A fly-fisher of 27 years, Jerry is a polite fellow with the requisite craggy face, gravelly voice and straightforward manner of a lifelong outdoorsman. Better yet, for the past 16 years he’s taught a fly-fishing course at Ventura College, patiently educating eager dilettantes in casting, fly tying and the myriad other intricacies that comprise fly-fishing’s craft. And he has even worked with reporters, so he has a sound grasp of how journalism works.
“I think we could probably teach you the basics in two days,” Jerry tells you. “You’re just writing an article, and you damn sure don’t have to be an expert to do that.”
Your schooling begins on a rainy Monday with casting.
“The key to fly-fishing is being able to cast,” says Jerry. “About 10% of the fly fishermen catch 90% of the fish. That’s because they can cast and they know how to present the fly.”
As he talks, Jerry flicks the rod gently. With each forward movement the line lashes out straight and true before falling with less impact than a sigh.
Jerry hands you the rod. You catch something on your fourth cast. Unfortunately it’s the oak tree in Jerry’s front yard, where Jerry has you practicing.
“To try and learn to cast and fish at the same time is impossible,” says Jerry, unsnagging the line from the tree. “You need to get the hang of casting before you can even think about catching fish.”
This should be easy. Physically a fly-fishing cast comprises little more than moving your arm in a short, smooth arc, starting roughly at your chin, then moving up to your ear and pausing for a beat before moving back to your chin where a smart stop sends the line flying out. It’s the same sort of motion employed by those human traffic cones who direct airplanes to and from their gates. It looks easy. It’s not. Jerry moves rod and arm as one; back, then forward, then back again--chin to ear, ear to chin, chin to ear--keeping the line snapping about in the air.
“One-two. One-two. One-two,” he says. “Keep your wrist locked and your motion straight.”
He stops on the forward motion, and the line snakes straight out, lying neatly on the grass.
“See?” he says. “The line follows the rod.”
Jerry hands the rod back to you. You promptly snag a hedge off to your right.
“I was a lousy caster for five or six years,” says Jerry, perhaps hoping a little bonding will keep you from stripping the surrounding shrubbery naked. “For beginners, working a fly rod is really no different from a golf swing or a tennis swing. You flub it, you top it, you raise your head up to see where it’s going.”
Your own head is up enough to observe that Jerry is now standing a safe distance behind you. You suspect you have already distinguished yourself as the Gerald Ford of fly-fishing. After another ten minutes Jerry sidles cautiously to your side and grabs the rod. Like any good teacher, he never discounts the impossible.
“You’re screwing up worse,” he says. “You’d better stop.”
You meet again three days later. Jerry is in a chipper mood. He may be in danger of losing an eye, but if fly-fishers love anything at all, it’s fly-fishing. Jerry drives you an hour into the mountains. You’ll be fishing Matilija Creek, a favorite spot for local anglers. Recent rains have the creek running fast and clear, good fishing conditions by Jerry’s reckoning. The banks are also free of trees and shrubbery, an important consideration given your hook’s affinity for chlorophyll.
Before getting started, Jerry ties a fly on the end of the line. Choosing the proper fly is crucial. Keeping it simple, the rainbow trout you’ll be fishing for in Matilija Creek eat insects and their larvae. In selecting a fly, the fisherman’s job is to “match the hatch,” approximating the local buffet as closely as possible. This isn’t easy. By Jerry’s own estimates there are over 70,000 different fly patterns--wild-looking things that resemble aliens from space having a bad hair day--and that number doesn’t even include homemade flies. Fly selection is an inexact science. Why fish will strike at something that resembles Tina Turner’s hairdo is a mystery.
The essence of fly-fishing is simple.
“You have to choose the right fly and put it in the right spot at the right time,” Jerry says.
Because you can’t do any of this, Jerry fishes first. Standing in the creek he flicks the rod back and forth. The line shoots out about 15 feet, falling almost reluctantly on the water’s surface. The idea is to toss the fly upstream from the fish, then have it float past like a hairy appetizer.
“See the fly on the water now?” Jerry asks. You can’t see anything but bubbles floating on the surface. “You bet.”
“Well once the line lands on the water, you pull it in so it’s fairly tight,” says Jerry. “Then pull the line toward you nice and gradually.”
He peers intently at what you assume is the fly, while one hand slowly gathers in line.
“You need to bring the line in to avoid getting slack, but don’t bring it in too fast,” he says. “An insect isn’t going to look like a motor boat.”
Within five minutes Jerry gets a bite, a four-inch rainbow trout darting up from the bottom to snatch at the fly. Adroitly timing the trout’s strike, Jerry sets the hook and reels the fish in. He holds it out briefly for your inspection--a beautiful, slick spackle of gently heaving yellow and blue--then slides it back into the water.
“That’s the name of the game. Catch fish,” he says, handing you the rod.
Maybe for Jerry, but not for you. Your casting hasn’t improved since earlier in the week. Your casts are all over the stream, and the line crashes into the water like an anorexic bullwhip. At one point Jerry walks around and unhooks the fly from the back of your jacket.
You lash at the water for ten minutes but nothing comes to the surface. Apparently all the stupid fish have been caught.
“I didn’t catch many fish in the beginning,” Jerry says kindly. “Fly-fishing is a matter of practice, practice, practice.”
And so you let Jerry do exactly that. It doesn’t seem fair to let him stand by while the fish are biting, though he assures you that’s not the point.
“It doesn’t matter to me whether we catch anything or not,” he says, proving his point by landing another trout and slipping it back into the creek.
You sit by the water’s edge, listening to the creek run and watching Jerry cast, the silent line arcing in graceful, dozy loops, tracing what appears to be the Gettysburg Address in the sky. It is a thing of beauty.
It seems so simple, you say.
Jerry shakes his head and smiles before turning his attention back to the creek.
“I know,” he says. “I know.”