stalking the wild trout

Nelson (a.k.a. trout joneser) took me to a beautiful stream last weekend to re-introduce me to the wonders of fly-fishing. Having shunned the sport years ago after returning trout-less from too many afternoons spent in a roaring stream cursing and yelling, I was sort of dreading this trip. I knew well the frustration of getting the silken fly line tangled in a tree, or losing a fly from tugging too hard to release it from a mossy rock. Once, after a sloppy sideways cast, a fly pierced the muzzle of my pooch, who was lingering downstream. I guess you can say that I lack a certain sportsmanlike grace.

I admit, I have problems fishing with troutjoneser. I'm not sure if its a competition thing, or my sensitivity to the rising frustration in his voice when I don't understand his directives ("don't flap your wrist!"), or my perfectionist pride, but it makes me anxious to "lose", especially in the face of troutjoneser's prowess, and then I feel stupid. And I didn't want to feel stupid on this unexpectedly sunny Sunday. But I wanted to be together, to get out of the house, and to do something fun. After 4+ years of marriage, this is important, is it not? To indulge each others interests with a sense of lighthearted adventure?

After a short ride through rolling farmland, we arrived at the stream (which cannot be named, troutjoneser informed me. One cannot divulge the identity of a good source for trout). After slathering ourselves in Deet and sunscreen, we rigged up our rods and reels, and waded in. My initial casts were rusty. I was sort of flapping the rod back and forth, expending a lot of energy, so that when I released the line, the fly landed about 3 feet in front of me. But troutjoneser patiently pulled me aside, and showed me how to cast, keeping my wrist straight, flush with the handle, so that the rod was an extension of my arm. My brow had no doubt furrowed last time he demonstrated this basic skill, but this time it clicked.

The wide-open stream made for perfect rookie conditions. The water was shallow enough so that I could wade into the middle, away from trees and shrubs to snag my line on. And when I did snag, I remained surprisingly calm, and removed the fly with little effort. I didn't catch a thing, but being on the stream rooted me in the present, allowed me to slow down and focus my mind on the stream before me and the scene around me: on the flow of the stream across the rocks, the Monarch butterflies and emerald green dragonflies alighting on the banks, the birds calling their mates.

The day (minus the GINORMOUS MOSQUITOS, a topic for another post!) was pretty close to perfection. I'm not sure what to make of my change of attitude. Perhaps its just being a little older, or perhaps it has to do with the very small window of summer that we have in Maine, that makes me simply grateful to be outside in nature. For now, I am still a humble beginner, content to venture forth with the trout joneser. If I catch something, great, but above all, I hope to maintain the peace, patience, and detachment necessary of all trout fisherwomen.