I had held the fly rod, running my hands over the black foam grip and the forest green blank for weeks before I brought it outside. It was a $25 rod, reel, and line from a department store, but I kept it safely inside. I felt like the right thing to do was to wait until I was actually on a trout stream. I was in, and it was all or nothing.
After the months of thinking about fly fishing, after biding my time with the rod in my room, after two hours in the car to the trout stream: two casts in I caught a fish.
This moment came a few years into my fishing career. Ever since my best friend told me I had to give fly fishing for trout a try, I had been watching Saturday morning outdoor shows, focusing on the appropriate pages in Cabela’s catalogs, and day dreaming about this new endeavor. Teenagers have the propensity for and the luxury of developing a one-track mind. I still loved bass fishing, but in the interval between deciding to try fly fishing and fly fishing I was uniquely focused on trout. As I preparing for my inaugural fly fishing trip I continued to go to local ponds every other day. My big Plano tackle box went where I went. I used my Shimano rod and reel with surgical precision. I didn’t love bass fishing less. I just began to love fly fishing for trout more.
What it came down to was a captivation: the people, places, and things that came with fly fishing had me.
It was the flowing symmetry of a fly cast. It was the aesthetics of a delicate dry fly. It was the analytical stalking the came along with walking the banks of a spring creek. I couldn’t cast well. I couldn’t tie on tiny dries. And I sure as heck couldn’t catch spring creek trout. But for some reason, that was okay. The pursuit, with a few fish sprinkled in, was enough.
I continued to fish and to learn. Attachment grew from surface-level infatuation to true endearment. Generally speaking, the trajectory of my affections matched the increase in the number and size of fish caught. Fly casting, the tiniest of dry flies, and the addictively frustrating nature of spring creeks occupied my mind and my time. Fly fishing was full of wonderful, beautiful things. It was taking me to some remarkable places. More than that, fly fishing was introducing me to some incredible people.
I’ve made innumerable casts since that second one that yielded a little brown trout on the Yellow Breeches Creek in Pennsylvania. I’ve accumulated some truly special things, been fly fishing all over the world, and become acquainted with a diverse and fascinating community. Don’t get me wrong: the fish matter. A lot. The quarry of fly fishing is an essential part of this whole endeavor. But the culture of fly fishing? That has had me hooked for over 25 years.
The above post is a refreshed version of an article from 4 years ago. From time to time, I enjoy revisiting older content and coming at it with a fresh set of eyes… and fishing experiences. Enjoy!