My Favorite Question

Questions I love being asked include: “Would you like some pie?”, “What is the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?”, and best of all, “How did you get into fly fishing?”

That last question immediately transports me to my 22nd birthday, opening a gift from my college friends—a St. Croix fiberglass fly rod paired with a Martin click-and-pawl reel. We had fished together before, casting lines in nearby reservoirs and off the Berkeley Pier, but never with a fly rod. I was so overwhelmed by the generosity of the gift (even more so now, knowing just how much fly-fishing gear costs) that I didn’t pause to wonder why this rod and reel felt so different from the beefy saltwater setups I had used growing up in Southern California.

I learned to fish as a kid from an uncle who took me surf casting on a weekend trip to San Diego. We fished big saltwater rods rigged with multiple snell hooks, baiting them with freshly caught sand crabs and dropping them down with two ounces of lead. Another uncle later handed me one of his old rods, which I bungeed to my 10-speed bike as I pedaled off to fish the pier and surf in my Southern California beach town.

So how does a SoCal ocean-fishing kid become a fly fisherman? Honestly, I’d say that fly fishing found me.

Long before that beloved college gift that still holds a revered spot in my quiver, there was an elementary school magazine sale fundraiser. My grandmother always subscribed to “anything about health,” but I convinced my parents to buy me a subscription to the only fishing magazine available: Fly Fisherman. When the first issue arrived, it introduced this bait-throwing, saltwater-loving kid to a whole new world—one of chalk streams, tiny hooks wrapped in fur and feathers, and photos of guys dressed in vests, rubber pants, and hats stuck full of those same tiny hooks covered in feathers and fur.

You’d be correct to guess that, starting out in fly fishing as a broke college kid, I’m a self-taught fly fisherman. My first time casting that whippy St. Croix came on a post-graduation cross-country road trip with three buddies. We were camped somewhere in Idaho. I woke up early, tied on the only fly I had—what I now know was a blue-winged olive—and fished a small pool nearby. I don’t remember much about the cast, the drift, or even if I saw any risers. But I do remember the serenity of that early morning—standing alone in the middle of nowhere, fishing with what felt like weightless, winged pocket lint—and falling in love with it all.

The years that followed found me fishing that St. Croix in Colorado, still teaching myself the sport as a broke grad student. Without the internet to guide me (ahhh, ye olde pre-YouTube days), I relied on magazine articles, trial and error, and sheer persistence. Despite my questionable technique, I sometimes managed to trick a fish or two. But the most valuable lesson I learned in those “Wow, that guy looks like a terrible fly fisher” days? Enjoy the time outside, appreciate the company of friends, commune with nature, and don’t let getting skunked ruin your day. After all, it’s only fly fishing.

So now, I’ll ask you my favorite question: How did you get into fly fishing?

I hope your answer takes you back to a time of grainy, print-photo memories—of loving family, great friends, patient mentors, and maybe even a few good fish. And I can’t wait to set down my pie to read how you got into this great sport in the comments.