Some folks are convinced that the Loch Ness monster is just a sturgeon or a catfish. Such people are plagued by the chronic condition of being unimaginative. Devoid of whimsy or wonder, they suffer from the kind of hyperrealism that leads them to tell children that Santa is made up. And, I’m confident they begin their statement with a condescending “actually…”
That said, if Nessie was and is a catfish I’d want to catch it.
This ambition has nothing to do with busting myths or slaying dragons like a 21st century St. George. It is all about catching that fish. The outlier. The exception. The anomaly. I’m all in on catching the fish with the reputation. There are certainly larger catfish elsewhere. There are plenty of larger and harder fighting fish, for that matter. But catching the (a?) Loch Ness monster on a fly? There is something about pursuing the eccentric that aligns so well with the enterprise of fly fishing.
Case in point: I’ll spend an inordinate amount of time targeting certain panfish.
Friends can be popping surface flies that imitate baby ducklings, looking for bass weighing in the double digits. Pragmatic anglers might be covering vast quantities of water to present their offerings to as many fish as possible. I’ll be cycling through every fly in my box because I caught a glimpse of a girthy sunfish. I’ll painstakingly drift my canoe slowly around a bare spot in the lily pads and see if there is a bluegill sporting that forehead/double-chin combo.
Anyone can catch a mess of fish or a big largemouth. There is glory in tangling with the meanest pumpkinseed in the pond.
If such a specimen plays hard to get then the obsession only deepens. A reluctant redear quickly hollows out a circular depression in my brain using its stout tail. Then it sits there, looking defiantly at my ego. After fishing to the real creature until its body language indicates I’ve overplayed my hand, I’ll paddle away. Inevitably I’ll spend the next hour contemplating alternative approaches to that fish instead of focusing on the bevy of other options swimming around me that are showing inevitably greater levels of interest in my fly. Those fish don’t have moxie.
Again, this is all directly adjacent to fly fishing in general. There are easier, faster, and cheaper ways to touch fish. But in the same way the Harlem Globetrotters have to spin the ball on their finger before shooting a three-pointer, we fly fishers engage in a ribbon routine in rubber pants. Is it that weird to fixate on the biggest little fish in the reservoir? However, the analogy breaks down when you consider that rock bass have a much higher win total than the Washington Generals.
I don’t know what the Loch Ness monster is, taxonomically speaking. In that vein, I’m also not great at quickly identifying the various centrarchid species while on the water. But I do know that I am drawn to a challenge. Hearing that the McRib is back causes legitimate BBQ joints to become slightly less appetizing to me. Once my kids go to bed, I try to get the high score on their Bop-It. Acquiring a target, I become singularly focused on what hoisting it from the depths might just be like. Perhaps it is all because deep down inside, I’m drawn to fly fishing for the same reasons I am cognizant that many miles away,
There’s a shadow on the door
Of a cottage on the shore
Of a dark Scottish lake
Many miles away