Regardless of what’s happening in the world, political bullshit, work bullshit, all bullshit, it all has a tendency to drift away with rushing currents, wind drifts, or tides. It’s like you cease to exist in the real world, at least for a little while, and submit to the natural order of things.
To me, it’s never more evident than chasing hatches and rising trout. It’s a perpetual quest to be in the right place, at the right time, with the right conditions. Witnessing the perennial transition of mayflies from nymph to subimago, imago, and eventually a dead bug on the water surface that a trout can’t resist gulping down is the essence of fly fishing.
It’s almost cruel how short the prime dry fly season is in the east. That just makes it more critical to make hay while the sun shines and let the calendar and conditions set your course. Every year is different though and I think that’s a big part of what renews the fever, year after year. It’s such a refreshing challenge.
Early on, the mysticism of mayflies and the trout “jumping” on the surface is what brought me to pick up a fly rod without really understanding what I was witnessing. The fish were acting ridiculous and I wanted to be in on the secret. Years later, I’m neglecting sleep and stumbling through pastoral settings in the dark, hoping that I went far enough to avoid that long abandoned barbed wire fence and countless other things so I can stay long enough and search for risers. The stranger thing is finding yourself neglecting fishing time to plant trees along those creeks, recording water temperatures and chemical properties, and meeting with professionals to coordinate construction and permitting to stack logs in creeks just to hopefully create more opportunities.
Whatever your in-road is to fly fishing, whatever the species or setting, jump in with both feet. You’ll be amazed where the journey takes you.
Dirt Roads and Blue Lines 