The problem - if in fact change is a problem - is that last week's trip forced me to admit just how much fun swinging flies for steelhead can be. God help me, but swinging flies for steelhead might have become my favorite brand of fly fishing.
Nope. Not this time. Not from this guy. I still love nymphing almost every bit as much as I ever did. I love the simplicity of glo-bugs, sucker spawn, and pheasant tails. I'm fascinated by the notion of a 12 pound fish gorging itself on #18 stoneflies, and Great Lakes steelhead do gorge themselves on #18 stoneflies. Estaz reminds me of Christmas. Who doesn't like Christmas?
The problem with nymphing is that while I love it, I've come to love it the way I love my brother. My brother is a great guy. He and I have shared some moments; we've had some great times. When I think of him, I think of him fondly, and I miss him since he moved to North Carolina. I don't miss him, however, the way I would miss my wife and children if they were to move to North Carolina. I am passionate about my family in a way I am not passionate about my brother, and - as much as I am genuinely pained by the admission - I've come to be similarly passionate about swinging for steelhead. There are several reasons for the change, but two reasons in particular represent the sum of my thinking.
Any bug chucker who has stayed awake all hours of the night, in wide-eyed restlessness and hopeful anticipation of the next day's fishing trip, knows what it's like to watch the early morning programming loop on History or the Military Channel. You've seen RAF bombers lumbering up a Yorkshire runway on their way to Frankfurt, Dresden, or Berlin. You've seen the German 88s spitting fire as the bombers inch ever closer to their targets. You know what flak looks like, and so too do Salmon River steelhead.
On the Salmon River, the steelhead are the bombers, and it's the anglers - bug chuckers, pinners, and gear heads alike - that play the part of 88s spitting fire at the fish as they move upstream. In some runs, steelhead will take flak from both banks for hundreds of feet at a time. Line after line after line - each tipped with a vicious Gamakatsu, Mustad, or Owner - drifts slowly, and silently searches for flesh to bite or fins to sting. And if those anglers lining the banks aren't particularly ethical sorts, then their hooks will only sometimes sting fish fairly (more on that in another post).
You don't need to say it. I already know what you're thinking. Here we go again - another debate on the virtues of swinging for steelhead versus the moral murkiness of nymphing.
Nope. Not this time. Not from this guy. I still love nymphing almost every bit as much as I ever did. I love the simplicity of glo-bugs, sucker spawn, and pheasant tails. I'm fascinated by the notion of a 12 pound fish gorging itself on #18 stoneflies, and Great Lakes steelhead do gorge themselves on #18 stoneflies. Estaz reminds me of Christmas. Who doesn't like Christmas?
The problem with nymphing is that while I love it, I've come to love it the way I love my brother. My brother is a great guy. He and I have shared some moments; we've had some great times. When I think of him, I think of him fondly, and I miss him since he moved to North Carolina. I don't miss him, however, the way I would miss my wife and children if they were to move to North Carolina. I am passionate about my family in a way I am not passionate about my brother, and - as much as I am genuinely pained by the admission - I've come to be similarly passionate about swinging for steelhead. There are several reasons for the change, but two reasons in particular represent the sum of my thinking.
The first reason is flak. Yes, flak - as in World War II allied bombers flying over Nazi Germany - flak.
Any bug chucker who has stayed awake all hours of the night, in wide-eyed restlessness and hopeful anticipation of the next day's fishing trip, knows what it's like to watch the early morning programming loop on History or the Military Channel. You've seen RAF bombers lumbering up a Yorkshire runway on their way to Frankfurt, Dresden, or Berlin. You've seen the German 88s spitting fire as the bombers inch ever closer to their targets. You know what flak looks like, and so too do Salmon River steelhead.
On the Salmon River, the steelhead are the bombers, and it's the anglers - bug chuckers, pinners, and gear heads alike - that play the part of 88s spitting fire at the fish as they move upstream. In some runs, steelhead will take flak from both banks for hundreds of feet at a time. Line after line after line - each tipped with a vicious Gamakatsu, Mustad, or Owner - drifts slowly, and silently searches for flesh to bite or fins to sting. And if those anglers lining the banks aren't particularly ethical sorts, then their hooks will only sometimes sting fish fairly (more on that in another post).
And that's the first reason I've come around to swinging the longest of the long rods. Spey fisherman - with only very few exceptions - are beyond reproach insofar as legal hook-ups go. The fish they hook aren't snagged. The fish they hook aren't flossed. The fish they've hooked are fairly hooked, not the incidental, accidental, or providential result of enemy flak.
The second reason I've had my come-to-Jesus moment and given myself over to swinging flies for steelhead has been written about ad infinitum and to the point of being cliché. I'm willing to bet that anyone who lists his or her reasons for fishing a spey rod and swung flies - in any river, in any part of the world - would say the same. God it pains me to say this, but ...
The tug is the drug.
Ughhh. That phrase makes me cringe, but so help me it's true. The take of a steelhead on a swung fly is electric. It is pure, unfiltered, undiluted endorphin - piscatorial heroine hammering away at your frontal lobe. The take of a steelhead on a swung fly is like an orgasm in reverse. You get the money shot at the beginning and the foreplay follows after. By the time a bug chucker brings a fish to hand, he or she is likely to need a cigarette and a nap. And that's all from an average fish. Hook a big fish and chances are 50/50 you'll join a monastery and commit to vows of celibacy.
The tug is the drug.
Ughhh. That phrase makes me cringe, but so help me it's true. The take of a steelhead on a swung fly is electric. It is pure, unfiltered, undiluted endorphin - piscatorial heroine hammering away at your frontal lobe. The take of a steelhead on a swung fly is like an orgasm in reverse. You get the money shot at the beginning and the foreplay follows after. By the time a bug chucker brings a fish to hand, he or she is likely to need a cigarette and a nap. And that's all from an average fish. Hook a big fish and chances are 50/50 you'll join a monastery and commit to vows of celibacy.
So am I still a dirty ass nympher? Maybe. Maybe not. I'm really not sure. All I can say is that last week's trip to the Salmon River left indelible impressions on both my heart and mind that are unlikely ever to fade. Even now - sitting here at my keyboard- my fingertips curl around imaginary cork and my closed fist follows an imaginary swing through an imaginary tailout.
Damn it.
I'm a swinger.
Damn it.
I'm a swinger.
3 comments:
Welcome to the club, sorry its been a painful transformation. When are you going again. I sense an itch that needs to be scratched.
Well it's about ffn time...haha
swing or go home...
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