The (somewhat) civilized fly fisher

Now that the kerfuffle of the past few weeks has settled, I’m looking forward to the warm weather of spring and all that it entails.

Fly fishing season begins a little more than two weeks from when this fish wrap hits the doorstep, which means it’s time to shuffle around my tackle and fly rods, mend any waders that require patching, clean my lines, replace the older lines, get altogether organized, and find a way to fit all my gear into my modest little SUV.

The trick is to have a place for everything and everything in its place to enable easy setup without fumbling around and wasting valuable time looking for stuff.

This ensures more time on the water, the better to terrorize trout and seize the opportunity to show those little fishies who’s boss.

And heaven forfend you wind up on the water and discover you’ve forgotten something crucial such as a lighter or a flask. The bestlaid plans and all that.

Yet problems with my obsessive-compulsive organization typically arise when I bring along a friend. Because they either aren’t aware of my OCD or just don’t care, they put their stuff on top of mine, push my equipment aside to accommodate their own, and generally foul up my carefully orchestrated organization.

Or, they absentmindedly forget stuff and I have to dig into my stash to bail them out. How can anyone even conceive of a fishing trek without first packing a few cigars, a full cooler, a morning bracer of Bloody Marys, and an afternoon chaser of a little Irish?

Traditions must be upheld, and civilization defended!

Then there are the guys who think it a good idea to gear up while blocking access to my stuff.

About these guys, the less said the better in a family newspaper.

They’re usually the same fellas who throw their wet waders and muddy boots on my carefully organized, dry, and mostly clean gear bags at the end of the day.

But, all is forgiven when the chairs are out, and the conversation kicks over from current events, politics, and whatnot to topics of a more humorous and sometimes personal or cultural nature.

It’s not uncommon for one of my fishing pals to break out into a conversation on T.S. Eliot, for example. The camaraderie on the bank can only be matched a mile or so down the river when my buddies and I will take a break to light a cigar, share a snort (or two) of Irish, swap fish stories, and offer each other trail mix, granola bars, or other nourishment, unsolicited advice and tips, and an extra tippet if somebody forgot to perform their due diligence. This is also an opportunity to exchange data on which flies are working and which ones are not.

We’ll also compare notes on the wildlife encountered on the river whether it was the mischievous mink skittering among the foliage and rocks on the bank to keep its eyes on you and make sure nobody stole his lucky fishing spot, the eagle and heron catching fish more frequently and gracefully in the hole you lucklessly abandoned 15 minutes before, or freeing a duckling tangled in some idiot fisherman’s carelessly discarded line.

My friends and I have also witnessed trees on the bank apropos of nothing fall into the river, scaring the ever-loving stuffing out of us. I watched one pal make a beautiful cast, only to have a bird tag the fly on his line as he was performing a forward haul.

And I once, unfortunately, brought in a baby snapping turtle.

But the point is to outsmart fish, whether large or small, and bring them to net. Or … is it? Maybe it’s just enjoying nature either alone or with good friends.

The camaraderie on the bank can only be matched a mile or so down the river when my buddies and I will take a break to light a cigar, share a snort (or two) of Irish, swap fish stories, and offer each other trail mix, granola bars, or other nourishment, unsolicited advice and tips, and an extra tippet if somebody forgot to perform their due diligence.