Fly-fishing is a sport of numbers. Fly rods have a length and a weight. Lines and leaders have a weight and size. Flies have a number based on their hook. Fish are measured and weighed. But at the end of the day there is one number that trumps them all… the number of fish. When you arrive home from a fishing trip no one asks what size leader you used or if you fished your 3 or 5 weight rod. They want to know how many fish you caught. That is the question you either can’t wait to hear or dread answering. After a successful day I’m excited to share my news. When the day was fruitless there is the hollow sounding, “No, but I had a good time anyway. It was real pretty.”
And yet in that world of numbers everything is relative. Just as seasons and conditions change so do the value of numbers. The reason the same number cannot be used repeatedly to define the success of a trip is the value of that number is relative to the seasons and conditions themselves. A number that represented a long and disappointing outing can just as easily represent success and fulfillment.
Of all the numbers in fly-fishing it is the number one that can have the most contrast in its value. Two fishing trips in particular come to mind when I think of the different values of one. Spring fly-fishing in Shenandoah National Park is all about Brook Trout. In the spring these native “Brookies” are supposedly an easy catch as the aggressive little trout attack dry flies up and down the mountain streams. This has never been the case for me. On a trip to the Rose River in Virginia last spring that fact was hammered home. My fishing buddies Chuck and Ray were tearing them up, pulling multiple trout out of each hole. I couldn’t catch those Brookies if my life depended on it. Whether it was poor casting or spooking the fish is unclear. What was clear was that the rugged Rose River and its skittish Brook Trout were kicking my butt. In the late afternoon I finally managed one Brookie on a nymph. One. One lousy Brook Trout all day. Ray and Chuck probably had 30 or more between them. I had one. I was dejected and defeated. And the number said it all.
On the drive home my spirits settled and I recalled another time of catching just one. It was late January of that same year. We had driven up into the mountains to fish the North River in what had already been a very hard winter. There was still a great deal of snow in the park. The truck’s undercarriage scraped over the crunchy snow covering the unplowed gravel road leading to the river. We parked and suited up in our warm weather gear, waders, gloves, and hats and hiked into the snow-covered woods for some winter fly-fishing. Ever sense childhood I had marveled at pictures of fishermen standing in a river surrounded by snow and triumphantly holding a fly rod in one hand and a trout in the other. I wanted to be that guy. I wanted to be a guy who could catch fish on a mountain stream in the dead of winter. It didn’t get much more dead of winter than this.
The challenge of the season was great and the North River gives no favors. I had fished the North before and had been shut out. The river presented its same obstacles – low water, few obvious runs and pools, gin clear. And this time add in snowmelt and a hard, cold winter. We fished our way down the river. It could not have been more beautiful. Several pictures of the incredible winter scenery were taken but I had one picture in mind. A fish caught in this winter wilderness. By lunch Chuck had caught two. Our friend Dale had fished very slowly but came up empty. I hadn’t even had a bite.
After lunch we worked our way down to a bend in the river with a nice pool and a fat log. Several nice trout sheltered under that log. Chuck and Dale took a few casts and moved on down stream. My target had been found and with it a determination to fish that hole as long as it took. Nymph after nymph were cast along the log. The trout would watch the offering drift by then causally swim back to safety. Other flies were cast with the same response. Finally after many attempts a trout took the fly. The hook was set and the fish was on! The fight brought the trout within one foot of my net when, at the last second, it freed itself. A desperate lunge with the net was fruitless and the fish escaped back to the log. “Still counts,” I thought to myself. “No, it doesn’t,” a voice in my head quickly shot back.
Any guide would have told me to give up on the hole and come back later. I couldn’t. I kept fishing. I had to catch one. Several flies and repeated refusals later and the time had come to accept defeat. Chuck and Dale had long ago passed me on their way back up the river. The winter afternoon was starting to fade and darkness was not far behind. At the top of the pool I took one last cast. Whether it was the different angle or the grace of God, I don’t know, but a nice Rainbow Trout came out from the log and took the fly. I set the hook and the fight was on. The trout darted back and forth across the pool and had to be played just right to prevent an escape to the shadows and safety. As the fish tired I started to work my way closer to the shore only to trip over a submerged rock. The fight suddenly was not only to land the fish but also to keep from falling in at the same time. I danced back and forth desperately trying to find my footing and not lose the fish. With rod held high I steadied myself, netted the trout, and made it to shore. “Woooo Hoooo!!!” echoed through the canyon and was answered in return from my friends who could tell what had happened. The trout was laid out in the snow along side my fly rod to be captured in photograph before being returned to the water. I had done it! I had caught a trout in the snowy woods of a deep winter river. I was that guy. I didn’t catch another fish that day. I didn’t even have another strike. It didn’t matter. That one fish was more than enough for me.
Just one fish. On the Rose River in early spring just one fish was all I could claim and were words of dejection and disappointment. On the North River in the dead of winter just one fish was all I needed to leave filled with adrenaline, pride, and satisfaction. Fly-fishing is a sport of numbers. “Just one fish” can mean very different things. In the end though, just one fish is better than no fish at all.
Copyright Rick Ridpath 2010
