celticfisherman
Banned
I wrote this a while back and just thought I would share it here.
You know the more I fish the more I think of fishing, the more I dream about fishing the more I fish, the more I fish the more it consumes me. ESPECIALLY when you do it with a long rod baby...
What is it about the fly rod that turns some of us into uncompromising fish bums and fish heads??? THe rhythm? THe beauty? The challenge? All of them? Maybe the lifestyle? Stomp around a campfire in the mountains, beer and brats on a fall line river, cold mornings throwing streamers for reluctant trout, nicotine rushes to get you thru the night floats? Yeah that must be it.
Why do we pursue fish with feathers and flash? Why do we flail into our days with tiny tippets and bad back casts into, over, and under trees, rocks, and cussing guides? Cuss like drunken sailors when we snag something and can't wait to do it all again telling our wives how much fun we had while not bringing anything home not even a picture. Maybe deep down we are all masochistic. Maybe we have a screw loose. At least I am sure that's how my friends and family look at my travels and pursuits...
My dreams consist not of beautiful beaches and women but salt flats filled with fat redfish chasing mullet, 10lb browns crashing top water flies, smallies leaping in the fall sunlight, largemouths busting a deer hair fly at dusk. Beautiful rivers cut into the mountains with high canyon walls and limestone outcroppings. Sunsets on the marsh. The scream of a good reel with a good fish in the backing. The beauty of a bent rod.
Tattoos, nicotine, and unkempt hair are more common among my fishing buddies than Phd's, MD's or God help us lawyers. A few friends have spent more on rods than on cars. A few even houses...
Personally I think it's a life style. Not just a hobby. I had almost forgotten how much I like the feel of a fly line laying out in front of me. The sight of a popper landing under an overhanging branch. It has been a great year of rediscovery for me.
Man cannot reach perfection. I am a Presbyterian, Scot-Irish, and mountain (half of me anyway) bred fellow so I believe like in the movie that "Man is a dam mess" but thru fly fishing we can gain a little bit of perfection. The other half is just an anti-establishment un-reconstructed confederate from Atlanta who just does this to be different...
Maybe just maybe it's the places, the people, the experience of fly fishing that I love and chase. Trout do not live in ugly places. Shoal Bass don't either. In fact can you fish in an ugly place? Or once we reach the water does everywhere become beautiful?
In any case that's my ramblings and thoughts for a night... A week of a couple of good fishing trips. Only a few fish but a lot of good companionship.
Can't wait to do it all again.
You know the more I fish the more I think of fishing, the more I dream about fishing the more I fish, the more I fish the more it consumes me. ESPECIALLY when you do it with a long rod baby...
What is it about the fly rod that turns some of us into uncompromising fish bums and fish heads??? THe rhythm? THe beauty? The challenge? All of them? Maybe the lifestyle? Stomp around a campfire in the mountains, beer and brats on a fall line river, cold mornings throwing streamers for reluctant trout, nicotine rushes to get you thru the night floats? Yeah that must be it.
Why do we pursue fish with feathers and flash? Why do we flail into our days with tiny tippets and bad back casts into, over, and under trees, rocks, and cussing guides? Cuss like drunken sailors when we snag something and can't wait to do it all again telling our wives how much fun we had while not bringing anything home not even a picture. Maybe deep down we are all masochistic. Maybe we have a screw loose. At least I am sure that's how my friends and family look at my travels and pursuits...
My dreams consist not of beautiful beaches and women but salt flats filled with fat redfish chasing mullet, 10lb browns crashing top water flies, smallies leaping in the fall sunlight, largemouths busting a deer hair fly at dusk. Beautiful rivers cut into the mountains with high canyon walls and limestone outcroppings. Sunsets on the marsh. The scream of a good reel with a good fish in the backing. The beauty of a bent rod.
Tattoos, nicotine, and unkempt hair are more common among my fishing buddies than Phd's, MD's or God help us lawyers. A few friends have spent more on rods than on cars. A few even houses...
Personally I think it's a life style. Not just a hobby. I had almost forgotten how much I like the feel of a fly line laying out in front of me. The sight of a popper landing under an overhanging branch. It has been a great year of rediscovery for me.
Man cannot reach perfection. I am a Presbyterian, Scot-Irish, and mountain (half of me anyway) bred fellow so I believe like in the movie that "Man is a dam mess" but thru fly fishing we can gain a little bit of perfection. The other half is just an anti-establishment un-reconstructed confederate from Atlanta who just does this to be different...
Maybe just maybe it's the places, the people, the experience of fly fishing that I love and chase. Trout do not live in ugly places. Shoal Bass don't either. In fact can you fish in an ugly place? Or once we reach the water does everywhere become beautiful?
In any case that's my ramblings and thoughts for a night... A week of a couple of good fishing trips. Only a few fish but a lot of good companionship.
Can't wait to do it all again.
