Tradition
The "first day" of trout season holds different meaning for different people. Some folks are "One and Done;" they pay the price of admission and hope to see a good show. For some it's an annual reunion of family and ol' pals gathering to swap the same stories year in and year out. And some are meat eaters. You can typically tell these ones by the evil eye they give you when you approach, and the sigh of relief they laboriously let out as you continue passing by...or that look of incredulity they give you when release that big guy back into the water.
For me, as with many, it's about tradition. Ever since I took up fly fishing, "Trout Season" really has had no Open or Close. But that's a semantic argument. The "First Day of Trout" is always a special time, because it's a day when I exclusively fish with my family. For decades it was Grandpa, Dad, and I at the family camp. These days, it's still a Father-Son-Son affair, but I'm the "middle" son, and my own child punctuates the trio. (Regrettably, an important school project kept The Duke home this year...and while I was disappointed he wouldn't be with us, I was proud of his commitment.)
This year held a little extra anticipation, for as I continue to wade the waters to where the fly rod takes me, I decided this winter to "up my game" and build my own rod. With much guidance and advice from the likes of Skip and Bings, I finished a 7'6" 4-wt on February 2, 2012.
Dad had given me my first fly rod for Christmas, 2008. And when he did, he said to me, "Hopefully this will open up new avenues for you." And he couldn't have been more prophetic in his hopes. I've met so many great people, explored waters I'd never heard of, and I've become completely addicted to the discipline. So with that in mind, I decided that this rod would not so much as see a false cast until April 14, 2012, because I wanted to be with my Dad when I landed the first fish.
The day began as it did for many: low, clear conditions, sunny skies, and people everywhere. We started at our traditional "first spot." By 8:30, people were buzzing up and down the creek, an obvious sign that the bite was tough, and people were searching for holed-up fish. We were no exception. We moved downstream to another familiar location, and as we drew closer two gentlemen there (also a father-son duo) put the block on the head of the hole. They were having success, and they were carnivores. Dad and I smiled at each other and moved on.
I stopped to fish a spot where only one other person was fishing. There was plenty of room, but I got the sense that when I dropped my nymph into the water this meatasaurus wasn't too pleased with my presence. I felt the tug, and as I lifted the 4-wt I mumbled, "Here we go!" But the fish spat the hook, and I was denied. I decided to move on and let the man in the circa 1980's Peterbilt hat have the exclusive on that hole.
Dad had gained a lot of ground and was now well downstream of me. I was picking at every little piece of water that just "looked like it should," but to no avail. Lunchtime was approaching and so was the smell of the skunk. Dad was perched on a log ahead of a large hole, shaking his head as if to say, "I can't believe this." I figured I'd work my way down to him, and we'd head back to camp for lunch.
A deeper pocket behind a large rock caught my eye. I nearly walked by it, and had it not been for a fortuitous sneeze, I'd have passed it up altogether. I stood well upstream of the rock and tied on a no-can-fail streamer pattern. I cast well below the tail of the pocket and began stripping in. In the faster water, the line just STOPPED, and I thought I'd snagged on a hidden twig or rock. Then the rod tip began to bow, and I could feel the violent headshake. FISH ON! I could see he had some size to him, and he gave that 4wt all that he could. I looked downstream and called out, "DAD!" He looked up and smiled as he watched the tussle. After what felt like eternity, I finally managed to bring him to hand. I was ecstatic. Fly Rod Avenue had brought me to another place. And while I am by no means an avid anything yet, I was pleased with what I'd done.
I placed the large bow on a wet rock, and after a quick UberFlySnob picture and a Jimmy Houston kiss, I safely released him and watched him dart under the rock. "Slime on the cork, Baby...Slime on the cork." I made my way down to Dad, who had a grin on his face, "Was that your first one?"
"Yes...yes it was. And it was on a fly that I tied and a rod that I built. Not bad for 'avenues,' is it?"
"Nope. Not bad at all."
As we walked back to the truck, I noticed something: I was walking behind my Dad, and with every step he'd take, I was unwittingly placing my feet in his footprints...like I had done so many times in my youth. I felt like I was seven years old again. "This is where it's at," I said to myself. "This is my tradition."
post edited by mohawksyd - 2012/04/18 00:46:54