WHEN NATURE CALLS : Fly-fishing wannabe sacrifices the sport for sake of the moral code
Posted on Sunday, July 13, 2008
Ican't fly fish and keep my Christian faith. They simply won't co-exist. The reason ? Ineptitude at the sport led to madness and madness slipped into adolescent anarchy as verbal fireworks exploded from once-innocent lips. It's safe to say that if Momma had been present, well, she wouldn't have spared the rod.
My preacher always said if you're doing something to cause you to stray, keep away from it. Maybe that's why, after all these years, I haven't picked up another fly rod. Just seeing one makes me want to wash my own mouth out with soap.
My best friend growing up was Donnie Crowell and we got into all sorts of mayhem together. Like the time we killed a woman's socalled pet squirrels. Hey, we didn't see any collars on the quick little tree rats. Then again, we were in her backyard when we cut loose with our shotguns.
Then there was the time we busted a hole in the bottom of his dad's flatbottom boat while floating Little Red River. I can still see - and hear - Charlie strutting towards us, growling at every step. It's a look only a dad intent on killing two teenage boys can appreciate.
It was stuff like this all the time with the two of us but we had a good time. Our summers were spent on either the baseball diamond or waist deep in the Little Red. Baseball had umpires to keep the peace but once we hit the water, we were on our own. That's when trouble usually started.
We toted cheap spinning rod / reel combos or closedfaced reels like the Zebco 202 when we slipped into the warm waters that fed Greers Ferry Lake. Catching 10-inch bass and watching them tail-walk across the water gave us the biggest thrill but really, any fish willing to engage in tug-of-war was OK with us.
The problem we often faced, however, was throwing super-light lures with regular rod / reel combos. Slinging Roostertails, small crankbaits or lead-head jigs was easy but trying to toss popping bugs wasn't. Of course, these tiny, wooden offerings with feathers proved over time to be the best in our arsenal.
Donnie had the big idea to bring along a pair of fly rods on one occasion. They belonged to his day, but hey, it sounded great to me. We could reach all those wary bass now that we had the tools to place a lightweight offering on the tip of its nose. A new way to catch fish was - and still is - an exciting venture.
We weren't smooth like those trout fishers but we made it work. Donnie was a bit better, as he'd fly-fished with his dad several times but I improved from our start at dawn's early light to the heat of high noon.
Our downfall was the propensity to entangle ourselves with the surrounding canopy. Using long poles and slinging big loops of line in small quarters with lots of overhanging trees was a recipe for disaster. And we cooked up a dandy on this day.
Really, it was Donnie's fault. He somehow managed to catch a tree limb about 15-feet up and he was none too pleased. For a while I stayed on the sidelines watching his cheeks flush with anger as each attempt to free the popping bug failed. He always had a temper and I couldn't help but laugh.
Finally, I spawned a brainchild to help my best bud. I'd use my fly rod and try to knock his bug off that stubborn limb. The idea was sound except for the fact I left my popping bug at the end of the rod. Don't ask me why, I just did.
I lifted the fly rod as far as I could reach and started trying to smack Donnie's lure free. Well, it didn't take long for my popping bug to grab hold of the same limb. So there we were, both fly rods swinging in the breeze and our prized popping bugs fixing to become permanent tree ornaments.
Now before this happened, neither of us was prone to cussing. But sometimes, a boy just can't hold his tongue. The more we fought with our fly rods, the deeper the hooks dug in. Suddenly, and without warning, both of us gave new meaning to the term, blue streak.
We scorched the earth with words that would've made a hardened sailor blush. The air turned blue from countless expletives. Naughty word after naughty word passed our lips and we didn't give it a second thought. Years of hearing these words and not using them caught up to us on this fateful day.
I seethed in anger and began to put a lot of force behind trying to yank my line free. And when I broke my borrowed fly rod, well, we also broke the so-called moral compass.
Our verbal blitzkrieg heightened with this revolting development. Blaming the fly rod for breaking seemed the way to go and we called it everything but a fine piece of fishing equipment. Squirrels scurried for cover, turtles fell off their logs and deer bolted away in response to our wicked tongues. Then, reality set in. Charlie was going to kill us … again.
I guess everything's a bit more dramatic at a certain age but looking back, it's pretty funny. Still, I leave fly-fishing alone. I can't handle it. Besides, I do just fine with spinning reels and baitcasters. No need to upset the complex dimensions of my fishing, I say.
Don't take this tale as an anti fly-angling rant. It's far from it. A fly rod in the hand of an expert is a piece of art worthy of expensive oils on fine canvas. Unfortunately for me, I'm more like a kid with finger paints that stumbled across an unsupervised white wall.
Bobby Hill is the outdoors columnist for the Times and lives in Fayetteville.
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