It's all about how you look on the water right? Kerry Jordan explains
Fly fishing isn’t about catching fish or convening with nature. No, it’s all about tackle and image. Standing in front of the mirror in the hallway I check out my reflection. My trucker cap sits at a jaunty angle, embroidered with the logo “Coronado Cay Fishing” in cursive script over a leaping tarpon. I imagine that I resemble a grizzled charter boat skipper, particularly as I haven’t shaved for three days, and could do with a haircut. I had wanted one with “82nd Airborne” stencilled on it but they were out of stock. Never mind, I’ve got one on back order. I’ll need a close shave and seriously short hair to complete the look with that particular cap.
I’m not sure whether to park my Maui Jim sunglasses on my cap brim or in front of my eyes. I’ll go for the first option. I ordered them online having seen them advertised by a handsome blond Swede holding a giant trevally on a white beach under an azure sky. I mused that there was bound to be a lissom Scandi girl waiting for him at the infinity pool back at the lodge. Bastard.
My waistcoat is the business. Sixty eight pockets. It doesn’t matter that it takes me fifteen minutes to find my car key when I pack up. No the important thing is to fill those pockets. Sun block. Tough camera. Toilet paper - you never know. Silica dessicant. Wallet. Spare laces. Latest iPhone X in Space Grey to match my waders, although there is no signal out of town. Leaders and tippet. Scales. Deet to melt my sunglasses. Mountain spring water. Spare reel and monogrammed hip flask.
My sandwiches go in the roomy compartment on the back.of the waistcoat. They will be nice and flat by the time I've driven to the river. Most of the pockets are of course for fly boxes. The more that you can pack makes you a better angler. And conceal a beer gut. I prefer the sort that float, as this enables you to follow their progress as they float off downstream. Most of my twelve fly boxes are filled with dry flies. I prefer to fish for trout on dry flies as I believe that they taste better than trout that eat nymphs and shrimps. Of course I carry a good selection of nymphs as well, particularly the Doomsday ones with depleted uranium beads that make a real splash to let the fish know I’m around. And a box of stoneflies although they don’t occur around here. And a box of heavy streamers bought in Slovenia to impress my mates.
There are plenty of rings and hangers on the front of my waistcoat and one on the back of the neck to hang a net on that I can’t easily reach. Time for a check to make sure I'm fully loaded; a bottle of Gink and Xink. Snake River mud to sink my tippet - except it never does. Forceps on the off chance I catch a fish. A nifty Abel line nipper that will cut 100 lb braid, literally and metaphorically a snip at £84.99. A magnetic fly and amadou patches. There's something special about the overall look this projects, and the admiring sly glance that I know I'll get from the girl cashier in the petrol station.
I have invested in a new 4 weight rod that I shall be using today. Well, it was over two years ago that I bought the last one and I find that after a couple of seasons use they somehow lose their power as new models enter the catalogues. Of course I have a new reel to match, machined from an alloy of magnesium and lithium. It was reassuringly expensive and mostly consists of multiple round holes. But it does make the rod lighter when attached. Rick in the tackle shop has filled the reel with a new fly line since each manufacturer makes forty five different lines and I really don't know what they are all for, and he also makes sure it's wound on the right way round. I prefer the hi-viz fluorescent lines to give the fish a chance.
I've managed to reach my pimped up Chevy Silverado truck without female eyes detecting the new gear, and stow it next to my Mossberg pump-action shotgun in the rack. My coonhound Bubba jumps in the cab. Yup l got ‘nuff packs of Marlboro and two crates of Bud. I should hit Joe’s Diner out of Bozeman for eggs-over-easy and coffee in a coupla hours…..
Sorry just daydreaming; waders and boots in the limited-edition Astra and I'm good to go.
There is one car parked in the field nearest the downstream end of the stretch of river that I am fishing today. It’s an old but immaculate green Morris Minor Traveller that I recognise; it belongs to Basil, another club member. Not only does he have a woody wagon but he fishes with a wooden rod! He wears a deerstalker, drinks craft beer, and can identify insects accurately. He catches a lot more fish than I do but it’s not an image I crave. I understand though that split cane is now bang on trend so it may become necessary to invest in a brand new one. Perhaps I could eBay the rod I bought last week? I tackle up and tie on a Tup’s indispensable. I’m fond of this fly because I can see it easily and it’s one of the few that I can name. I hang it on the first rod ring because the maker neglected to put on a keeper ring on my £700 rod. I imagine it’s called a stripper ring ‘cos after a few sessions the lining becomes rough and grooves the fly line.
There are a couple of fields to cross. Fortunately this is arable farmland so there are no cow pats to soil my pristine Patagonia Tractor boots. The notoriously curmudgeonly landowner who farms the land keeps his sugar beet and wheat fields chastely separated by four rows of razor wire and a tractor-wide strip of dead ground between them; a bit like a miniature version of the demilitarised zone between the two Koreas, although I don’t think he has access to landmines; he is reputed to have shot a dog that was worrying his potato crop in previous years. I have to take a sideways excursion away from the obstructed public footpath to reach the metal gates that he hasn’t electrified. Yet. I remember to close them so that his crops don’t wander off. At the riverside I manage to avoid the single strand of old rusty barbed wire strategically placed at ankle height, in front of an evil thicket of brambles that really would like to rip at my hands and face like an angry cat.
In the river without incident I feel I must look the dog’s bollocks in my new zip front waders. Pity the crotch is leaking; but they do still permit a controlled release of wind into the atmosphere. Time to fish! I’ve dressed the whole length of my new fly line with a new slick coating to give me those extra yards. So important even in a twelve foot wide stream like this. The only problem is that it causes the line to fall down back through the rings pulling the leader with it. I do hope Basil isn’t watching. Fortunately I have a workaround by rubbing my new fly line with Snake River mud. That stops the slippage OK, but does give a new acoustic dimension to my casting efforts.
The Tup’s indispensable isn’t doing the business so I’m not too fussed when I decorate a tree with it. I think I’ll try a depth-charge orange nymph on the end of my new length of tippet. I tie on a length of 4x fluorocarbon to my leader. I don’t know how strong it is. Tippet material is sold with an X rating or a breaking strain but a bit like Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle you cannot know both. It tests my environmental credentials to use it because I find the knots tend to give way and it will persist in the river until the end of the current Holocene age. I like it though because although I can clearly see it underwater fish apparently cannot. It says so in my Sportfish catalogue so it must be so. Complete with a matching brilliant orange thing-a-bobber I lob the lot upstream. It goes under first chuck; must be a snag. But it’s not, it pulls back, what a surprise! Serendipitously Basil is walking back down the track by the bank, and I am suffused with pride and joy that he can see me, rod fully flexed, projecting the image that I covet. Somehow I net the fish although the elasticated retaining cord is wrapped around my neck - I hope he can’t see that! It’s a chub and a good one although it’s foul hooked so I shield the fish from Basil’s gaze as I unhook it. I’m delighted to have caught anything at all but mustn’t show it, particularly towards a lowly wild coarse fish.“ Only another bloody nuisance chub Basil” I cry.
After all image is everything….
