She's trying to eat the reel.
Two weeks ago it was snowing, our Nation’s River filled with shivering shad and eager anglers – individuals like me who held onto the slightest glimpse of hope that spring would finally come in mid-April. Now it’s 90 degrees. I guess we should be careful what we fish for. I mean wish for. For weeks, Washington was mired in the misanthrope that is an extended winter. But like the Cherry Blossoms and Nationals Park, so too has the Potomac River sprung back to life.
To me (and every other living thing on this planet) – spring is that clichéd “renewal of life”. The magical time of year when the sun warms the earth, baseball starts its marathon-long season, sundresses and shorts become the norm again, oh and shad, bass, snakeheads, and stripers return to our local waters. In short - hope for good weather, sunny days, and good fishing abound within everyone (well, maybe just the weather and sunshine). For the next couple months, our water temps will remain below 80 or so degrees. Game fish of all shapes and varieties will go through their life cycle of pre-spawn gorging, spawning lockjaw, and post-spawn exhaustion. It will undoubtedly be the best fishing of the year for everything that swims everywhere… But call me crazy - I will miss winter.
I will miss winter a lot actually. More than I probably should. But there is a special serenity to be found on a quiet, crisp morning in an otherwise empty forest dotted with fresh snowfall. A simple beauty in relishing the breath in front of your face, knowing you’re the only person on the water that day, and realizing you should’ve worn 7 layers instead of 6. It’s the way a hot cup of coffee warms your entire body when everything else is frozen around you. It’s your favorite winter hat, the sunburns from a sunny, 20 degree day, and knowing with every cast you make – you’re telling Jack Frost to suck it. But most of all – I will miss the fish and the incredible rush that comes from sticking a fat trout in a seemingly empty pool. The satisfaction of knowing you’re doing what you love despite the elements. But not everything about this past winter was perfect- RGIII's knee being at the top of my list.
But there were many trips were I froze my ass off and came back with nothing to show. Mornings were my rod guides and hands froze. I lost two nets and half of a G Loomis rod on one trip. Almost lost my life on another. But if I've learned anything from winter, it’s that even though the forest is barren – life still exists in the stream.
So before the trees bud and the shad run reaches its fever pitch (look for cast netting poachers near Chain Bridge) – let’s raise our glasses to winter. Thank you for every minute of your miserable biting winds, freakish fronts, short days, and regulation to trout streams and Four Mile Run. You've versed me well in patience and perseverance. Lessons that will pay off come summer doldrums. But now that spring has sprung, who cares about any of that?
Time to party with some fish.
Stay fly.o edit.
Fly fishing is a beautiful thing. To me, there is neither a simpler nor greater pleasure than hopping into my waders, threading the line through my guides in early morning darkness, and finding myself on the creek at sunrise. That is my perfect morning. It’s a lot of people’s perfect morning, but as we know – perfection is hard to obtain. However, people need to remember perfection is purely based upon a state of perspective. Any moment can become perfect. All it takes is one cast. So why do so many anglers get pissed when they find someone else on the water with them in these beautiful moments? Strangers be damned – share the love!
I’m not sure about you dear reader – but getting the stink eye for merely being in the vicinity of another angler is not something I take too kindly to. It’s kind’ve like being blatantly ignored at a packed bar while trying to order drinks. It’s rude, unnecessary, and ultimately something that negatively impacts more than one individual’s experience. We’re all there for the same reasons – fun having, catching fish, exploration, relaxation in nature, finding yourself, learning a craft, etc - so why the need to be a dick (for lack of a better word)? While you’re staring down that approaching angler like they’re a leper – you could be fishing.
I always find it a little funny when I see other anglers get visibly infuriated. I’ve seen foot stomping, arm waving, whistling, yelling, and of course, bird giving, over the years - more childish responses to the slightest bit of adversity than anything else. So naturally, I don’t let it phase me. But it is a little disconcerting that so many anglers are missing the big picture. That they actually think they have this sport all to themselves. News flash: sport fishing is a $6 billion industry per year. I guess the word got out somehow…
I know we all like to think of ourselves as the biggest badasses on the river. Conditioned to think this way over instagrammed propaganda and countless dollars forked out for $50 trucker hats, $100 “Trout Bum” shirts, $500 ProGuide waders, and fancy $150 fish-friendly nets (not to mention that rod outfit in your hand), but having the best gear or looking cool in fish pics doesn’t get you anywhere in this sport. Respect does. Respect for the environment, the fish, and yes, your fellow anglers.
Simply put, no one person owns the water (unless you’re fishing the Jackson River in Virginia). Instead, anglers need to adopt the mindset that the water is all of ours to share. We are all responsible. If we all do our part to keep fisheries sustainable and water clean there will be many more perfect moments to be had. But part of the reason there is such a mad dash for the best spots is that there are only so many of these places left. Because so many anglers over the years thought they were the biggest badasses on the river, promptly discarding their waste into the river, keeping everything they caught, and using the threat of imminent violence to keep productive water to themselves – fish populations and water clarity are not what they used to be.
In recent years, our angling community has become aware of these issues –science and conservation leading the way to a brighter future. But it takes the like-minded effort of an angling community and local governments to truly implement the change we need. You may have noticed our slogan: “Above All Else, Stay Fly”. Well, here at FlyTimesDC – we truly believe in message behind the words. It’s about keeping things in perspective, enjoying every second of this one life we have to live (and fish), having respect and awareness for your environment, and in doing all of this – knowing that the world will be a better place because of your efforts. Call it zen, hippie bullshit, a fresh perspective, or what-have-you – but try it out before you dismiss it as youthful ramblings. It’ll probably help you become a better person and fisherman.
So the next time you get the stink eye when you get on the water, instead of looking at your boot laces and sheepishly walking further downstream or shaking your fists in preparation for the equalizer – introduce yourself, strike up a few lines of friendly conversation, or maybe even share some tips. Remember, we’re all here for the same reason – it’s about time we start acting like it.
Most people I have come into contact with have been asked the somewhat silly question, “Where do you think you will be in 5 years?” No one can answer it for certain. So I don’t like asking it. If I wanted to experience random and irrational future gazing, I’d hit up Punxsutawney Phil for a weather report. But since we’re asking the question – in five years, I would ideally own, manage, and operate my own trophy trout stream and fly shop somewhere in the peaceful serenity of the mountains with a loving wife, loyal Labrador/trout retriever, and a chunky, healthy offspring. But in reality, I have no idea where I will be (probably still fishing whenever I can get on the water and trying to promote this site) - a lot can happen in 5 years. Just look at DC sports.
As recently as 5 years ago, Gilbert Arenas was a star in the NBA, Jason Campbell was the starting QB for the ‘Skins, the Caps were just starting their run of division championships and playoff heartbreak, and the Nationals’ best player was not Stephen Strasburg or Bryce Harper - but some dude named Lastings Millege (Zimmerman was hurt most of that season). Since then, a lot has happened. Arenas was replaced with the electrifying John Wall due to injuries and a hand gun fetish and now finds himself playing “professionally” in China, Campbell was jettisoned to the Raiders for a draft pick that would eventually help land RGIII and is now Jay Cutler’s backup in Chicago, the Caps are starting to fade but I’ll always rock the red, and Lastings Millege has thankfully been replaced by Bryce Harper. In short - a lot has changed. Our city, once filled with the allegiances of a transplant, non-local community, now has a little local pride. We no longer suck. People have jumped on the bandwagon. Even ESPN wrote about it. We even have a local brewery that promotes our most righteous quest for statehood. But before the success, there was a lot of heart break, misery, and Steve Spurrier. Our Nation’s River has had a similar rise to prominence.
Once considered one of the most polluted water ways in the United States in the 60s and 70s, the Potomac River has undergone aJared-esque makeover. In the dark days, it was more common to pull up a dead body from our murky river than a Northern Snakehead in this day and age. The shad, the poor shad, were denied their natural spawning rights because of manmade obstacles (dams) and pollution en route to their spawning grounds. To put it bluntly – the only fish made to feel at home were catfish. Gross.
Since those dark days, our Nation’s River has become aware of its importance to the Eastern Seaboard - the Potomac and its tributaries the life blood of the Chesapeake Bay and of vital importance to several anadromous fish species. The local governments, conservationist groups, and robust angling community responsible for leading the charge against fish barriers, over fishing, pesticide runoff, raw sewage, and other detriments dumped into the river. But there is still more to be done. We can always improve our home waters.
In last week’s hatch, I talked about how we are not in control of the car driving our lives. My aspirations of a peaceful mountain lifestyle and our District’s newly founded sports relevancy could crumble just as quickly as RGIII’s knee or the Obama economy. One slip of tire treading or missing the last step on the way out the door in the morning could affect the rest of your life. So why estimate what the future may bring? To me it’s not worth it. All we can do is live in the present. Do a little bit every day to make this world we live in a better place. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – fish how you live and you’ll love your life.
So where will I be in 5 years? I have no idea - probably fishing.
Brogan Jayne said it best in a previous Word Hatch, “I’ve never intentionally risked my life to go fishing.” Well, I can honestly say neither have I. But on March 12th, 2013 I came very close to proving that an individual doesn’t have to “intentionally” put their life at risk whenever they walk out the front door – it just happens. A drive in the rain and a slip of treading are the proof in the proverbial pudding. But this isn’t the first time God has treated me to a healthy dose of perspective.
Flash back to 1992...
When I was 3 years old, my older sister, Sarah, and I were playing in the attic. This was uncharacteristic for us since we hated each other in those days. In hindsight, I should’ve realized this was unnatural.
My dad was in the process of packing for a road trip and had gone out to run an errand. It was at this time that I decided Dad’s trunk looked an awful like a submarine. Naturally, I wanted my sister to see my vision and join in with me, but alas – the trunk was too small for the both of us to comfortably fit. Being the great big sister she was that day, she volunteered to stay behind and let me pilot the submarine/suitcase on a solo mission. I obliged by clambering into the trunk and excitedly announcing to the world that I was ready to submerge without questioning her motives for one second.
I looked at Sarah, who was all of 5 years old, and gave the command to “close but not lock” the trunk. Naturally Sarah closed the trunk, locked it, and promptly went downstairs to play in her room – leaving me for dead. She had planned it all along. Girls are smart. Trapped in the dark with an extremely limited amount of oxygen, I didn’t know what to expect so I sat and waited (sound like fishing anyone?). Luckily, through some sort of divine grace, the latch opened a few minutes later, an earnestly surprised Dad standing over me. I never realized how lucky I was. One stop in traffic or unplanned errand ran and I’d have been dead. But here I am.
Lesson learned: Don't climb in suitcases...
Flash forward to the summer going into senior year at Rhodes College…
I’m 21 years old and hell bent on catching a tarpon in a kayak. I’m attempting the incredibly stupid task alone with no mother boat or an accountability buddy in sight to help me if and when things get weird. If I hook into a poon, I’m going for a sleigh ride to Mexico with a kayak, iPhone, and a cursory knowledge of the Spanish language as my only means of getting home.
On this particular morning, I’m nearing the end of my usual drift a few hundred yards off shore. I’ve seen dozens of rolling fish – including one of the more beautiful moments in my life, when my 9ft kayak was literally floating in the midst of a tarpon school the size of a hockey rink - but luckily haven’t found a taker. My live pilchard swims haplessly about 50 yards off the bow. To this point, sharks have been an afterthought.
As I relax, the morning sun’s gentle warmth and kayak’s subtle rocking melting my worries away, I spy a large dark shape rising up from the sandy bottom out of the corner of my eye. As we all know, the waters off the coast of Florida are teeming with wildlife. Naively, I assumed this dark shape was nothing more than a dolphin or manatee – two of gods more trustworthy and friendly creatures. If only dolphins were 14ft long with a 3.5ft wide hammer-shaped head.
The Great Hammerhead is known to ram kayaks in the misguided hope that they are a tarpon. I never knew this. So until the shape was about a paddle’s reach away and gained definition, I was calm (unaware) of what was gliding my way. Looking down for the first time, I found myself staring the leviathan right in the hammer. At any point, it could have killed me. Knocked me out of my kayak and devoured me to the tune of my last words, “Oh, WHAT THE F*CK!” But it didn’t.
Again through some sort of divine intervention, the great fish realized it didn’t want me. With one flick of its giant tail it created a boil the size of a Mini Cooper and descended back into the depths. I returned to shore and promptly texted everyone (including my mother…big mistake) about my near death experience. The next day I returned to the water with a plan to protect myself just in case it happened again.
Lesson learned: There are bigger things than you.
Flash forward to March 12, 2013 at 8:15am….
The morning began like any other fishing trip to Mossy Creek. Renowned for its large, wild brown trout – Mossy resides about two and a half hours from Washington, D.C. While there are certainly closer places to pursue trout, waking up at 6AM, hitting I-66 West by 6:30 and finding myself stalking its banks by 8:15 or so is an experience I’ve come to really enjoy. The creek is challenging, the drive through the Shenandoah Valley breathtaking, and the fish straight from God’s private storeroom.
In the pursuit of large trout, my 2005 Explorer, “Buffy”, has made this trek into the budding dawn many a time. It’s kind’ve our thing. She is a machine designed for long hauls, pulling things, and driving through the elements. I am one that wants to fish at all times. We are a match made in heaven. So when I saw that the weather report called for thunder showers, I paid them no mind. This was not our first rodeo.
The weather worsened an hour into the drive. The roads, which a week earlier had been covered in 10 inches of snow, were now slick with snow-melt chemicals and anti-ice agents. I felt confident in Buffy’s ability to handle the road despite the worsening conditions. But about a mile from my old stomping grounds - The Plains, Virginia – something went wrong.
I felt the right wheel shutter. Oh f*ck. I began sliding through two lanes towards an inevitable doom at 75mph. I accepted my fate. “Well, I’m dead,” were my choice last words (I’ve really got to get better at this). Buffy then swerved into the emergency lane. She plowed through the ditch and promptly climbed/power slid 30 feet up and down a hill - similar to a surfer shredding waves. I prepared for the worse. But it never came. The car never flipped. It didn’t crash to a halt. Hell, the airbags didn’t even deploy. It was like God pressed a stop button.
I emerged from the vehicle shaken - much more so than the Hammerhead or attempted murder ever did. Some combination of adrenaline, bewilderment, and humility coursed through my veins (to the point I failed to notice my concussion until I got home a few hours later). I knew I was lucky to be alive. Someone somewhere gave me a second chance.
I'll try my best to not let them down.
Lesson learned: Drive slower in the rain, appreciate the sunny days, and know that everything happens for a reason.
I like to believe that God sends us messages. Akin to a power pitcher backing someone off the plate with chin music or a 30” rainbow shredding your 7x tippet with one majestic leap in a stream you thought no such fish could ever exist. Simply put, there are moments in life that leave us filled with adrenaline, fear, and questions. Regardless of fight or flight instinct, these messages tend to leave us shaken to our core. They are what define us – the motivation to back away or push on when faced with adversity. They are the true thrills of life. But the messages and challenges we come across, although hard to handle or comprehend sometimes, ultimately are what we are here for. They are the journey, our test, and purpose. It’s this simple rationality that allows me to carry on living my life the way that I do – fishing as hard and as often as I can.
I understand that my time here could end at any moment. I know I am not in control of the car driving my life. Literally. But you can’t draw lines - everything happens for a reason. The good, the bad, and the ugly are all part of the plan - hydroplaning, great hammerheads, and big sisters included.
So what advice can I give you? Enjoy every cast – you’ll never know which one may be your last.
When you tell your friends that you’re coming down for a long weekend of revelry and catching up on good times – the last thing on their minds is a world record grass carp. But then again, there is no such thing as a “normal” trip to Memphis.
When I travel, I’m about as close as it gets to being narcoleptic. The minute I step on a plane, I find my seat and promptly pass out until landing, dreaming of fish all along the way. It’s a fairly sweet system I’ve developed. Yet, on the flight back to Memphis to visit my alma mater and see the old friends, favorite bars, and eateries I left behind en route to the “real world”– I couldn’t sleep. The amalgamation of memories – Stauffer Field, frat row, tailgates, the “Barnett Library”, Zinnies, finals anxiety, fried chicken friday, Alex’s Tavern, the sight of long lost faces, and the return to my fly origins - encouraging my mind to race faster than if it were on Adderall . But I think the real reason I couldn’t sleep was a much simpler one - I brought my fly rod with me.
Most people know Memphis for its music and food. Whether it’s munching down Rendezvous dry ribs, Huey’s burgers, or Gus’s Fried Chicken while listening to the Sun Studios crooning of B.B. King or Elvis Presley along Beale Street or bumping bass to 107.1 (where hip hop lives) along Summer Avenue – Memphis is defined by its willingness to please your senses. Unfortunately, it will never be confused with a world class fly fishery. But what Memphis is – is a city defined by its opportunities and those individuals who seek them.
I like to think that I sought out my opportunities in college. I came to the Bluff City an obnoxious undergrad bent on dominating beer pong tables and the baseball diamond and left a relatively sane, rational-minded fly fisherman with a bum elbow and a healthy perspective on life. The person I was on my first day of college radically differed from the man I was on my last. Memphis forced me to blaze my own path to happiness - every cast into the unknown teaching me something new about life. Every dumb golf course bass a cure for the pangs of home sickness. I can only hope to repay this good fortune down the road - to inspire those around me to find true happiness in whatever they do.
I guess fishing will always be what I want to do. It will be the first thing on my mind whenever I see water or travel to a new place. It drove me to wonder onto an empty golf course on a cold night in the pursuit of largemouth bass and happiness my freshman year. I know for a fact it is the reason I convinced my best friend to move to Mudd Island instead of living closer to campus my junior year (there are neighborhood ponds). And despite an incredibly supportive group, is how I kept my sanity in Memphis despite all the obstacles that school, baseball, and life threw my way. Simply put, fishing has never asked me for anything more than a chance. I will always give it one….
The return trip to Rhodes College and Memphis was one of mixed emotions. I knew I would be walking into a situation where time had visibly passed me by. I would feel old and unwanted. There would be new buildings, new faces, and the inevitable first introductions to people I would probably never see again. Yet, I also knew that the faces and places that I came to love in Memphis would be there - that my friends, surrogate family, and most importantly - my fish would be there.
I won’t bore you with tales of how infuriatingly close I came to triumph or how several potential world record grass carp gave me the fin. I won’t tell you about how silly I looked hiding behind a tree and roll casting to a fish from someone’s backyard. I sure as hell won’t tell you what happened Saturday night. But I will tell you this, there are opportunities everywhere. All you have to do is look.
February - it’s close to 3am and there is a prodigious falling tide. I’m fairly sure that I’m supposed to be asleep because there are neither cars on George Washington Parkway nor the sleepy running lights of commercial vessels on the Potomac in any direction. Even Reagan National is still. But that’s not a bad thing. Far as I know, everyone in the Nation’s Capital is warmly dreaming of things to come in their beds. And here I am balls deep in a chilly morning on the Nation’s River all by myself. Despite the numbing sensation spreading through my extremities - I couldn’t be happier. But why am I here? I guess I hate normal.
As I stand in the nearly frozen water, Jack Frost doing his best to turn me into a frost giant from Joddenheim, my mind starts to wonder. Each roll cast, drift, and retrieve a test of my will to be there. But I chose to be in this moment. Normal people wouldn’t. This isn’t a normal situation. But honestly, there is no place on earth I’d rather be. All of this in spite of knowing that I’m playing against the odds this early in the season – that the water is too cold, the summer’s plentiful baitfish are no longer plentiful but on par with the unicorn, and that most sane striped bass have booked it to the Outer Banks by now. But fuck it. Anything could happen. There’s always a chance at the spectacular. You can’t have any doubts.
Unfortunately most people I speak with about fishing tell me that it’s a game of luck. I agree with them to some extent. But if you’ve only wet a line a couple times in your life, I can imagine that “luck” would be a convenient explanation for the inevitable successes and failures that belie this sport - similar to the ways magic, superstition, and blind faith were used to rationalize mystical concepts in medieval times. Simply put, anything can be attributed to luck. So naturally, I’d argue that this sport is about more than that. That skill, knowledge, and chance define fishing and life more than anything else. It’s about knowing what to do in certain situations and not being afraid to try something new when that fails. It’s about seeing the water on any given day and knowing, I’ve been here before. In other words, confidence under any condition is a valuable life trait. But damn, it’s hard to sound macho when your cajones might freeze off.
My contemplations continue for little over an hour. The time goes by without anything more than a powerful but brief thump. I’ve caught plenty of stripers here on past nights but looking at my phone, it’s now 6:30 AM. If there were fish here tonight, they would’ve shown themselves by now. But I have it all planned out from here anyway - leave at 6:45, in bed by 7, wake up for work at 8:30, in the office by 9:15. It will be a normal day. I’m not sure why this upsets me. My mind tells me, “Goddamn Rem - your hands are long past the point of being useless. Your ears hurt. You can’t feel your toes. You’re going to be tired for work. Why the fuck are we here?” But I decide to make one last cast, fully aware of what might happen.
The fly lands on the outter edge of the current flow. The line starts drifting and I mend to keep the fly in the strike zone. As it drifts through the main current seam, I give it a quick strip.
It’s now 8am. I have work in one hour. I’m still in my waders. I smell like I got jumped by a gang of striped bass. I’m tired and my day hasn’t technically started yet. But I feel fantastic and energized at the same time. Shaking my head and cracking a red bull, I can’t help but think - it’s amazing how one last cast turns into 100. Thank god I hate normal.
I doubt I will ever change.
Over drinks one evening, my older sister Catherine brought up an interesting question: "Would your 7 year old self like who you are now?"Probably, I thought to myself.Right?
The discussion began with us talking about how much had changed over the years. How our different life experiences and paths taken - like a trout somehow surviving the volatile, constant flow of a cold mountain stream - had forged our still maturing identities and led us to our current whereabouts in life. In short, we were lamenting our youth's ill-fashioned dreams and time's ability to make you forget them. In shorter - we were having the "we're grown up" talk.
A seemingly harmless question that's more complicated than a simple yes or no (evidenced by some profound head scratching from those involved in the discussion), Catherine's inquisition brought about some serious soul searching. But being the youngest, I remembered our aspirations. Embarrassing as it may seem now - Catherine wanted to be the star of Grease*, our brother Andrew yearned to be physically "unbreakable," and our sister Sarah chomped at the bit to become the NFL's first woman linebacker - I'm sad that we lost ourselves and grew up. But the more I thought about it, I was pretty sure that we all had done right by our little selves in one way or another. We were all healthy, content, and employed. All great things for this day in age. But would my 7 year old self approve of where I am now?
As a youth, school was secondary, nap-time unnecessary, and broccoli the most sinister of foes (all themes that continue in my life to this day). A curly headed hellion whose post-preschool snack consisted of Skittles and ice cold Surge Cola (gotta love the 90s), I typically passed those useless days I didn't go fishing by either fishing in the house for furniture against my mother's wishes (pillows fought the hardest), drawing fish in the corner of our living room, or daydreaming about that next time on the water. I was obsessed and on those glorious afternoons where I marched down the hill to my godfather's farm pond armed with a cane pole and worms - you couldn't find anyone happier or more excited to be there (sound familiar anyone?).
Over time, something has had to change. I've grown taller (I'm 6'2, as opposed to 4'5), filled out (215 lbs compared to 60), overcome my fear of the baseball (four-year varsity pitcher in college) and instilled just enough discipline to pay attention in school (graduated college). Hell, I even learned to fly fish (big hands, small flies, and light line are not mutually exclusive entities). But physical growth is superficial, most people eventually gain literacy, and more often than not, you'll pick up a fly rod without breaking it. The bottom line here is that life forces us to change whether we like it or not. No one can stay the same forever. But maybe a small part of them can. Let's see if little Rem and I still see eye-to-eye over some of life's more important details.
Over time, you'll recognize that a rare shot at perfection exists each time on the water. That at any given moment, your cast and retrieve can come together in a brilliantly violent explosion of predatory instinct, primal fury, and indescribable beauty. More importantly though, you'll learn to take things away from your experiences - each catch and failure a lesson in life's grand scheme of things. These lessons will almost certainly make you a better fisherman. But the fish are only part of the equation. You will probably become a better person from all of this, too. You'll learn patience and an appreciation for the little things, the importance of savoring each second in life and inherent beauty in all that surrounds us. You'll come to know the definition of preparedness and the conditions necessary for something to be properly called "working hard." People will initially think you're weird for finding sunrises more appealing than sunsets, full moons giving you vehement mixed feelings (full moons are the best for tarpon and the worst for stripers), or having a pep in your step on a rainy day because the fishing will be badass at a local golf course - but you're fine. Don't worry about them. They're the weird ones. What do they know? THEY (non-fishers) know that our sport bottoms down to a brutal combination of physical skill, technical precision, and luck. Unfortunately, this is somewhat true. But as YOU know by now, it's more than that.
This sport helps defines your identity. You'll have to adapt, go beyond your comfort zone and get good at something new very quickly in order to succeed. But isn't that the same as life? If you want to succeed, you can't be afraid to take that cast. Because when everything works - that sweet moment of predatory malcontent, where the subtle thump and hookset become the culmination of your life's achievements to that point in time - time seems to stand still. But for every great day of fishing, you'll have days that you'll want to forget. Remember that karma works both ways.
There will be excursions where your physical and mental limits are pushed, sometimes even broken. Trips where it seems that some mysterious, dark force is ruining your life. Days where you are without a doubt cursed, your heart and rod breaking almost simultaneously. Hell, there will be some fish you will never, ever catch. But that is life. That is fishing. You can never give up the chase. One cast can change your life. I guess we're getting away from the original question though, so I should finish up.
A wise man once told me, "The only ways to get better at fishing are to fish with someone better than you or to fish water you've never fished before." I agree wholeheartedly with his sentiment. But there is something bittersweet in that notion. With that logic, the greatest fisherman in the world must be someone who has seen and accomplished everything. And while I'd love to fish with that individual (their process sounds fun), the end result doesn't. Because when it's all said and done, it's the mystery of this sport that keeps bringing me back to the water's edge.
I know that every day is a clean slate with a new accomplishment or milestone to achieve. There is the beautiful possibility that on any given cast, my life can change. That at any second, I can see something completely original and genuine. Once that surprise is gone, the elation of my shaky hands and butterflies replaced with dull content and smug expectation, there will be no thrill or joy for me in this sport. That, my friend, is the person my 7 year old self would not like to be around or, more importantly, fish with. Safely, I can say that I'm not there yet. I still get excited whenever I feel the thump of a hungry game fish. I still have time.
When life is all said and done, it's about the relationships made and roads traveled - the people met and waters explored. Fishing, although a staple of my life, is about putting things in perspective. Whether it's spooking that giant redfish on a quiet flat by making the slightest noise with your feet and having the coolness to laugh it off, seeing a big rainbow trout aggressively attack your strike indicator when you've seemingly thrown every fly in your box at it and not breaking your rod, or having a sailboat sail over your pod of tarpon on an otherwise empty flat and not engaging in homicidal behavior - this sport has undeniably left its mark on me. When something breaks or doesn't go my way, it's okay. Things will get better. The fish will bite again.
Last Cast: So would my 7 year old self like who I am now? I can't be entirely sure. I'm sure we'd get along on certain things and we wouldn't understand each other on others. But I do know one thing - we'd like fishing together.
*For the Record, Catherine states that she "never wanted to star inGrease," but "just really really really loved the movie", which even she admits, "might be weirder."
Remick Smothers is a native son of the District of Columbia and the founder of FlyTimesDC. A self taught fly fisherman and fly tier, Rem graduated from Rhodes College with a double major in fly fishing and English in 2012. He has been celebrating the fly life ever since. Just remember, if it's dark out, there's a shark out. Above all else, stay fly. #flytimesdc