Although spring is in the air, February still seems frozen in place and, in spite of the warm weather of late, the Farmer’s Almanac says that we are in for cold weather for some time to come.
Personally, I’ve had enough. This whole winter business lasts way too long for me. These days I find myself spending a lot of time just looking out the window thinking about things – about time and how it just sort of slips through your fingers like sand, about past seasons and about this coming fishing season.
I’ve also been thinking about all the times that I didn’t go fishing last season, for what ever reason. Why acquire any more regrets than we already have?
Which I guess brings me to my point. When fishing season does finally roll around, I’m going to try and get out on the water a little more often.
First off though, I’m going to have to buy myself another boat. I sold my last boat, in part because it brought back a lot of memories every time I looked at it. My old dog Duff sure did like going out in that boat. Part of me regrets getting rid of it, but there are other boats. Ones that don’t leak.
I’ve owned a fair number of boats in my day but, when it comes to fishing and fishing gear, I am not really what you could call a purist. Maybe a sentimentalist, but definitely not a purist. A boat is just a boat.
A fishing rod is just a fishing rod. Except, of course, my father’s Orvis Battenkill fly rod. That means more to me than anything I own.
I guess I’ve owned and used just about every sort of fishing gear there is – everything from steel bait casting rods to 15 foot spey rods, “egg beater” spinning reels to centre pins and, along the way, I’ve cast lines and caught fish with some pretty classic gear, including my father’s hand-made Scaracione salmon reel.
If I’ve accumulated a lot of gear, I’ve also acquired a lot of very good memories.
The trick, I guess, is to acquire less gear and actually spend time on the water using the gear you already have.
These days I really do prefer fly fishing. Whether with a single-handed rod or one of my long two-handed spey rods, I find fly fishing more tactile, more exciting.
Although in some ways it can be a lot more technical, it is also simpler in that it is, well, more satisfying, more peaceful.
Fly fishing is a good fit for me. I like the feel of a fly rod in my hand. I like the fluid motion of casting and watching my (more often than not imperfect) presentation land on the water. I love it when a trout rises to my fly pattern sitting there on the surface of the water. I may not be a proficient fly caster, but I do catch the occasional fish – when I manage to get out there.
The whole art of fly fishing thing is certainly a far cry from the days when I was a kid heading down to the creek with an old metal rod and a can of worms.
Casting a line to fish holding in the shadow of a rock or overhanging branch alongside the creek was simply a question of lobbing a worm on a hook out to the fish, and hoping the sound of it hitting the water attracted it rather scaring it away. Fishing was less about technique, and more about anticipation and satisfaction.
What I wouldn’t give to be a kid again. What I wouldn’t give to sit on a rock somewhere with my cousin Charlie and take my shoes off, let my feet dangle in the water, cast my line and not have a care in the world.
What I wouldn’t give to have a few of those grains of sand back again.
