Lessons learned from an Ole Hole Hopper
We were recently out of town when my low-holing, rock-throwing teenage son granted me a Fishing Hall Pass while he was preparing to compete in a weightlifting meet. I mentioned last month that he has passions unrelated to fly fishing, right? Yeah, Olympic-style weightlifting is his jam—and at 17 years old, he can easily put the equivalent of my middle-aged mass over his head. And I’m no baby carrot.
A quick stop the day before at a local fly shop grounded me in its rugged, rough-hewn ambiance. I felt anxious and excited to explore new water on my own, armed only with some brief (intentionally?) vague descriptions from the shop’s website and an online map showing me how to get to my targeted thin blue line. I had brought along my fly box with a selection of my go-to “when in doubt, go tiny” flies, and couldn’t contain my giddiness as a young woman from the shop’s staff helped me fill in any gaps with a local selection. She became my personal fly sommelier, narrowing down the hunt from thousands of flies to just four from the local terroir.
Turning off the pavement onto dirt the next day and spotting my first fly angler in the middle of the river confirmed I was in the right spot. Yes! Then, a couple of hundred yards further along, another angler appeared. Cool! Slightly farther up from him was another guy fishing with a guide. Guides take guests here—great! Then, around the bend, another angler appeared, with yet another clearly upriver from him. Erm … that was at least five anglers spotted barely half a mile into the dirt road off the winding highway.
I lost count of how many anglers I saw before coming up on a campground on the opposite bank, where I spotted a spin caster playing a fish while flanked by three other anglers, all within 20 yards of each other. “At least there are fish here…” I weakly tried to console myself as I passed the third fully occupied parking area. Pretty busy for a Monday morning. Don’t people work around here?
I passed another parking area, this one half-full, although the optimistic exploring angler might argue that the parking lot was “half-empty” instead. Inspired by Michael Wier’s “Off the Beaten Path” California Fly Fisher blog post, I decided to drive as far as I could to see what was around the next bend. But after another couple of hundred yards, I came up to a “Private Property” barrier line stretched across the river. At least I only saw three other fly anglers in that stretch…? I had found Fly Fishing Disneyland. On the first day of summer. And it was Free Snow Cone Day.
With nowhere else to park, I drove back to the half-empty lot and started rigging up. Before I could get my boots on, an SUV pulled in next to me, and three generations of a family spilled out, the youngest in his toddler pajamas. I heard grandpa joke to his son-in-law, “You sure packed a lot of stuff—did you leave anything at home?” while the beleaguered son-in-law unloaded all the gear. It reminded me of my young dad days when my kids were little and we loaded up the car for a day trip like we were the Beverly Hillbillies moving to Californ-eye-ay. In the short time it took me to put on my boots, son-in-law had a big shade tent set up smack between the river and the car, and toddlers had their wee fishing poles in hand. Impressive, young Dadawan.
An older fly angler had strolled up during the multi-generational family unboxing and peered beyond the brush at the big tent. “They just got here,” I said to him. He gave me a wry smile and a short “thanks” before cutting in on the family like a drunk uncle cutting in to dance with an unsuspecting bridesmaid. Having just celebrated with family at my niece’s wedding, I may or may not have recently played the role of “Drunckle.” But I digress. That Drunckle was going to frog it up in the river right there in front of that family. I grabbed my rod and headed upstream.
The angler I had spotted earlier was climbing up the bank when I got to him. “How’s it going? D’ja get any in there?” I asked. With mild dejection, he admitted he hadn’t caught anything. “But they’re in there,” he said. In our quick two-minute encounter, I learned he was new to the sport and had fished this spot three times with no luck each time. I told him about the multi-generational family situation and the several other anglers within shouting distance downstream; I didn’t mention Drunckle. And with that, we traded spots like we were factory workers changing over from the swing shift.
I proceeded to work that run hard, grid by grid, and at multiple depths. The only interruption was the chatter in my mind of plump fish lazily moaning, “I am sooo full! I couldn’t eat anooother thing!” Then, just as I was working down close to the juicy section of the run, Drunckle dropped into the river right below me and started fishing. I tried to ignore him, but he was so close, and my “WTF?” thoughts grew so loud and distracting that he might as well have pulled up in a rumbling diesel truck blasting Swedish Death Metal.
But then, as quickly as he appeared, Drunckle disappeared—only to reappear on the road just above the end of my drift. We were close enough now to make eye contact when he nodded at me and said, “There are two—no, three—right in that drop-off if you can get your drift out into the middle seam.” Never being one to refuse someone with demonstrably better fish-spotting skills than I have, I thanked him and rolled my next cast into the middle seam.
One drift turned into a handful in that seam, all without any takes. It seems mean-spirited to call my benevolent spotter “Drunckle” now, so “Old Eagle Eye” is now coaching me into these fish.
“That last one went right into them. I don’t know why they’re not eating it. What’re you using?” I confessed I was fishing one of my own ties with one of the local shop offerings below it. “Hmph,” was his curt reply.
With my metered hall pass from my son about to expire, I offered to trade spots with Old Eagle Eye. “No, no. You stay there. They’re in there,” he said, clearly not about to let me leave empty-handed. “Run a few more through there.”
I tweaked my depth again. And again. And once more, until it really was time for me to start heading back. I began to reel in after what I decided would be my last drift—and that’s when my line went heavy. “Moss again?” was my first thought. And then I felt it. The unmistakable feeling of a head shake. “I think you got one!” Old Eagle Eye cried out.
After landing and releasing a beautiful 13-inch redbanded souvenir, I called up to him, “I think I owe you a beer!” before clipping off the #20 local emerger it took and climbing out. “Keep fishing,” Old Eagle Eye told me when I finally got up next to him on the road. I told him I had to head out and dropped the freshly eaten fly into his open palm as a token of gratitude. He identified the fly by name with an approving tone. Of course, Old Eagle Eye would know the local trout fare.
Only after I badgered him to get in and clean out the hole did Old Eagle Eye scramble down to the water. Time for the day shift to get to work! I took a perch above the drop-off he had pointed out, and there they were—two more fish feeding right where he said they would be. Considering I rarely see fish, spotting two was a personal victory for me. So I stayed around to try to return the favor and get him into those fish.
He threw some soft casts short before telling me he was fishing a 1-weight. My turn to think “Hmph” as I realized that there’s probably lots to learn from the kind of angler who fishes a 1-weight in, at the very least, 4-weight water. But I was out of time to stick around to gain any further wisdom from him.
The solo drive back through some beautiful countryside gave me time to reflect on my day’s experience of pursuing and fishing in unfamiliar water. My conclusion? This is what I love about our awesome sport: the 99.2% of truly great, friendly people who are part of it. From the young fly shop staffer who so willingly shared her local knowledge and whose fresh outdoorsy demeanor told me she probably even wears sunscreen more than I do, to the old-timer who took time out of his session hole-hopping anyone and everyone with impunity to scout fish for a fellow angler. There are cool people everywhere who wave around fly rods. That other 0.8% who aren’t truly great? Those are the notorious Felix the Podiatrist from New Mexico—and those people still suck.
I’d love to hear your tales of crossing paths with a new, cool person on the water in the comments below. Let’s celebrate the great and friendly fly fishers out there and appreciate those who share their kindness with strangers.
