I’ve involuntarily become a member of an unofficial fly-fishing club, the OFFF — the Old Farts Fly Fishers.
You youngsters below the age of 60 or so can shrug off what follows and flip the page to a how-to, where-to story, but just remember: if you are lucky, you might one day be a cardholder in this club. After all, consider the alternative.
I’ve been fly fishing pretty much all my life, with a hiatus here and there due to earning a living, and over the past decade or so, I’ve become aware that my body isn’t able to do some of the things that were easy before. No matter — I just take it a bit slower, don’t wade as deep or in such fast water, and there’s nothing wrong with sitting on a rock or stretching out on some bankside grass or sand for a half hour or so. The fish will still be there.
But more recently, I’d had open heart surgery (and I’d like to thank the cow that give its all so I could get a new valve), a procedure that the surgeon described as “a slam dunk,” had gone through cardiac rehab with flying colors, done regular exercises, and so had decided it was time to get back on the water. Just take it slow and easy to start with, I thought.
Off to the North Yuba I went, choosing a familiar spot where the water wasn’t deep and where there were lots and lots of fish, almost all small. A few hours, a few fish — that’s all I aimed for.
Wadering up wasn’t bad, although putting on the boots seemed tougher than it had been. Get organized — fly rod, vest, sunscreen, water, hat, and, oh yeah, my fancy new wading pole. I’m one of those people who have always hated wading sticks. They just seemed to get in the way, tangling your stripped-in line, getting between your legs, generally being a nuisance, rather than a help. Bowing to inevitability, I had decided to mend my ways and begin using one on a regular basis.
All set? Away we go! The weather was beautiful, the North Yuba was in perfect condition, and the fish were eagerly awaiting a size 14 Humpy . . . or maybe a Royal Wulff. No matter — in reality, it was the type of water where they usually take just about anything buglike. So in I went. But, hey, the rocks seemed more slippery than they had been, my legs more tentative, that infamous wading staff handier than expected. It took me twice as long to get the few yards to the middle of the river, to a spot where I knew there were pockets certain to hold hungry trout.
Gee, what’s going on? To be expected, I guess. After all, it had been a tough few months. . . .
Feet planted firmly, I stripped offline, preparing myself physically and spiritually for that glorious first cast. Oh yes, it was wonderful to be on the water again.
But . . . but . . . I was in the water! I hadn’t slipped, I hadn’t tripped, the eight inches of water I was standing in weren’t a factor, but I was suddenly and without explanation flat on my back, cold water pouring into my waders. I had, with no warning or explanation, toppled over like a dead tree.
After an explosive “What the [censored]!” I sat up and took stock. Rod OK, no damaged body parts, peed in my waders but that didn’t matter, no harm done. But my ego — shattered. Absolutely, completely destroyed.
I clambered to my feet (using the wading staff, of course) and tottered to the bank, where I sat on a rock and contemplated what had happened. Then came the epiphany, and it came like a jolt: Bill, you have joined the Old Farts Fly Fishers club.
Sad to say, that was it for the day — I stripped off my waders, dried myself, packed my gear, and remorsefully headed home without having made a cast. I was desolated.
Things have improved since then, although due to an ailing spouse, I spend much more time thinking about fishing than actually doing it. The few times I’ve been out, I still have trouble wading, and each time, I swear that in the future, those exercises to strengthen my legs will be done daily.
It was against this background that I read Seth Norman’s excellent “If Only Our Regrets . . . ” column in the September/October issue of California Fly Fisher. I got to thinking about whether I had any regrets. After all, I’ll become an octogenarian about the time of next year’s midterm elections.
Regrets? About things I’ve done or haven’t done, yes. So far as fly fishing goes, though, it’s like that long-dead Parisian waif kept singing, “Je ne regrette rien” — I regret nothing. Well, maybe that I never caught a tarpon much bigger than 100 pounds and never got to Australia to fish the Great Barrier Reef. But the rest of it was great, a list of on-the-water experiences that were wonderful. There were days with no fish, there were days steelheading when I thought I was going to freeze to death, but I don’t regret them.
I don’t even regret deciding that an IGFA light-tackle-record golden dorado caught fishing in Argentina could be bettered and letting it go. What I remember is that it put up a hell of a battle — to my mind, the toughest provided by any freshwater fish — and it deserved to be returned to its habitat. Besides, the day had just started, and I was going to catch a bigger one. Oh yeah?
For those of you who are about to join the Old Farts Fly Fishers or who hope to do so, the main thing to remember is that it’s still a fly-fishing club. It’s not over. Really, I mean it. You may catch fewer fish, you may not wade as deep or in water as fast, and you may spend more time sitting on a rock contemplating the scenery, but it is just as good as it was 30 or 40 or even 50 years ago.
And good things still happen. Just this spring, I spent a couple of days fishing a pay-to-play creek in Northern California that I had never fished before. My fishing partner and I were the first guests of the year, so we weren’t sure what to expect. In two days of fishing, we each caught more than 50 fish. My smallest was about 16 or 17 inches, while the rest ranged up to 21 measured inches. Not a one of them dogged it. They all fought like it was the end of the world. It was by far my best big-trout expedition ever.
To my mind, that hackneyed slogan really is true: there’s no such thing as a bad day fishing. Almost true, anyway. Fish enough days, and things will go wrong. You break a rod and don’t have a backup, a bear eats your dog — and so it goes. But the good days are the rule, not the exception, and once you are inaugurated into the Old Farts Fly Fishers, there is a tendency to be more realistic about enjoying what you are given, rather than bemoaning what you expected. After all, how many more years, months, days, or even hours will you be allowed to fish?
This also holds true for the fish you catch. They are all, every one of them, a prize. Don’t toss the dink back in the water with a sneer, and don’t denigrate for a moment the one that gives up easily and comes quickly to the net. They did what they could, so respect them.
Great examples of people who adhere to this rule are Ken Hanley, who is well-known in the fly-fishing trade, and Howard McKinney, who owns a fly-fishing travel agency. Both are friends I’ve fished with many times and in many places over the decades, and their constant enthusiasm and respect for each and every one of the myriad fish they catch makes being on the water with them a joy.
All this is preachy stuff, but we Old Fart Fly Fishers deserve a bit of leeway. Just keep in mind that when you join the OFFF, it isn’t a place to reminisce fondly (and not always accurately) about days gone by. It’s for enjoying the present and looking to the future.
Even if you can’t wade as deep.
