I once cast a line. I cast it onto a snow-covered side yard in an arc, an unfolding loop so right my brother-in-law gasped. I'd never cast a fly rod before. He'd taken expensive lessons through Orvis, practiced and practiced and here it was — a natural, innately perfect cast from, well, me.
Don't worry. It all went downhill from there.
This is it, I thought. Fly fishing is my raison d'être, my calling and my salvation. And, as I'd done so many other times, I threw out my previous passion and threw my money and my life energy into this. I was no longer whatever passion I'd just tossed away like an out of fashion pair of shoes. I was now the highest form of fly fisher, catch and release. I told everyone of my new hobby, sport, but thought of it as taking vows, as becoming a priest in this most exclusive and self evidently superior religion. I was all A River Runs Through It.
I was given a fly rod, a 4 weight, by my partner and her brother and I was off to a whole new world of acquisition. There is no end to the materials one might acquire for fly fishing. Oh the hours, the days, the weeks, the thousands of dollars I spent. Not practicing, but purchasing and reading about purchasing. Learning to tie flies and, oh boy, purchasing materials to tie flies: common and rare feathers and furs. I recall picking up a newly dead pheasant from the road and storing it in the freezer.
I didn't actually fish very much. Had no one to fish with. Had a romantic (read "deluded") image of myself on the water in my waders and felt-soled boots, my special folding staff, my vest with all those flies and leaders and tiny tools and that lovely wood-framed fish net, oh and my hat and special sun glasses, and special shirt, and special pants.
And, in reality, my time fly fishing was not only minimal, it was miserable. Despite having all the accouterments, the essential books including ones about insect hatches specific to a certain stream or small region — (oh, how arcane the scripture of fly fishing. I adored the cache) — on the water I could barley get to a fishing spot without tangling the line, getting all sweaty and bug bit and having to find a place to pee, which meant first taking off the waders.
When I tried to fish, well, it was pathetic. I really embarrassed myself and I lied to cover up my laughable incompetence. Like so much of my life it was better in theory than in practice. And, like many passions before it, my passion for fly fishing built to a showy, chaotic , expensive, and cluttered crescendo. And then just hung there high in the atmosphere like the mists above a high spring falls while I lay below on the rocks.
My last class was Orvis-sponsored. There were 2 male instructors. One of them condescending, sarcastic. Despite having mostly women in the class, these guys only provided 9 weight ( heavy) rods, too heavy for most women. We, the participants, had spent a lot of money on this day-long class and these guys had spent no time planning, or preparing to teach us. They clearly didn't give a damn. Why didn't I protest, or just leave the class, contact Orvis, and ask for my money back?
I didn't. I stayed. I cast all day long. A matter of pride. Wasn't gonna be some weak female. By the end of that day all of my natural casting talent was gone, completely unlearned, and my right shoulder injured.
I would never make a decent or pain-free cast again.
