Hooked

That's exactly what it looked like this weekend on my first fly fishing experience, except I wasn't as well coiffed or clad.  I hooked everything but a fish on the first day!  

My friends Don, Shelly and Ison Smith came all the way from Missouri for a visit this weekend and Don wanted to teach me to fly fish.  I've had my fly rod for SEVEN years and had never used it, having never had anyone to really show me the basics.  All the how-to books are incredibly intimidating and besides, I really think this is something that is better learned by doing, not reading.  

So they packed up their little camper and I packed up my car, and we went to Lewistown to fish Spring Creek.  I was so excited that I drove ahead, rather quickly, and got there an hour and a half before they did; which, in retrospect was silly because what was I going to do when I got there?  The instructor was still on his way!

It was HOT in Lewistown.  

Really hot. 

The access points to public fishing that I had explored while waiting for Smiths that had been quiet that morning were launching points for inner tube floaters that afternoon.  Not exactly ideal for fishing. In fact, downright annoying when trying to fish!  But really, it was just a spot for Don to teach me a few things and to practice.  

We left Shelly, Ison and their Irish Setter Tig, panting in the shade by the camper....I still feel terrible about how much they waited in the heat....and set off to fish.  

Don is a very patient, clear instructor who showed me a couple casts, let me practice, gave me more instruction on how to correct the issues I was having, then wandered off to fish and give me space to learn on my own.  I don't know why that's so important, but I get very tense and frustrated, trying to do everything perfectly when someone is standing there; when left alone, I slow down and process, try different things, laugh at myself, cuss at myself, and eventually figure enough out to ask more questions.  I kicked off my shoes and waded in as deep as I dared, casting and chuckling and cussing my errors.  

That first afternoon, my biggest thrill was keeping the same little brown fly on for 2 1/2 hours without losing it to tangles in the trees and grass, both of which happened frequently.  It's the little stuff...

One of the first things I learned was that time stops when fly fishing.  It's like magic.  I really thought we'd only been fishing for about 30 minutes!

Don and Shelly took off for their campsite which was on guest ranch sort of place about 25 miles out of town and I slipped back into town for some cold beer to put in the cooler so I could keep fishing.  I know.  But here's ANOTHER thing I learned:  I'm not really a beer drinker, but there's something about fishing that made me crave it.  How odd is that?  Is it some fishing voodoo that settles on people that pick up the sacred rod, without their knowledge?  I don't know.  But it sure tasted good.  

While we had been out flailing our rods, my friend Mike responded in a message to an earlier plea for information about good spots to fish.  The first thing he said was not to fish where we had just fished.  Of course.  But he told me about a couple good spots and suggested what type of fly to use, which was just what I had been using...elk hair caddis....a little brown fly.  

The plan was to meet back up with Smiths at 7:30 to fish the creek during the golden hours of the day, when the hatch was on and the fish weren't hot and placid.  I got the call from them about 7:30 that they'd JUST gotten to their campsite and were staying put....in the middle of nowhere.  When asked, Don said it was a scary middle of nowhere, not a cool middle of nowhere.  Yikes!

I wasn't going to waste the evening!  With Jimmy Buffett loudly singing "Hey Good Lookin'" and the windows rolled down, I drove to the first recommended access, parked the car and set off to fish on my own.  It truly is the golden part of the day, where the sun is low enough to backlight everything and it's starting to cool off for the night...these are the bonus hours, the ones we dream about in January.  

I found a path that ended up going in a tunnel through the willow thicket, tangles and snarls of grass and weeds and little trees.  But when I came out, I was right next to the creek where the water bubbled around a curve and a nice hole where I was hoping big, blonde, hungry trout lived. 

They may have been there, but they weren't hungry or dumb enough to take the little brown fly I was offering.  My casting got a little better...still quite interesting, but a smidgen better....and I ended up barefoot in the creek again, pants rolled up to my thighs, loving every buggy minute of it.  I realized in those couple hours that it was the quietest, most content that I'd been in months.  

I also realized I was hungry.

Ravenous.

But here's a little tip for you, just in case you find yourself in Lewistown Montana at 9:30 p.m. on a Sunday evening:  the town shuts down around 7:30.  E-VER-Y place to eat was closed.  The grocery store was closed.  The gas stations WERE open but Milk Duds and beer didn't really appeal to me.  Pizza Hut saved my life.  

Also, I was terribly sunburned which I didn't realize until my shower. And bug bit.  And my feet were in rough shape from the creek rocks.  A very satisfying day altogether...because all those things meant that I had been fishing!

End of Day 1....

Stay tuned for Day 2!