There are a lot of variables that go into fly fishing success

Choosing to fish the day after heavy rains isn’t the most intelligent of decisions. But here I am on the Namakagon River.

The river is not as high as it could be, but it is deep. It could also be a bit warmer to maximize the chance of a “hatch” popping off, but I am taking what the river is giving. Sliding into the river’s bearhug-like grip the coolness of the water envelopes me. Of course, there aren’t many bugs being born. Dang it. Oh well, I’m here to fish.

Using a small Hendrickson fly the week before I’d caught a decent sized brown trout; I thought it best to keep using the exact same fly now. It wasn’t too long before a smallish trout came to my hand. And then another. For not being a good fly caster I was doing OK on this early evening.

The brush and grass that leans over the banks of the river was fuller than the last time I was here; it makes for good cover for fish lurking in the dark, capturing unsuspecting bugs careening past. I was dropping my fly right on top of this ‘no-man’s land’ where the water goes just a bit flatter and becomes a bit slower. I caught two more trout, just in front of the reeds. I saw one of the fish pop its head above the surface an instant before taking the fly. It’s always mystifying when that happens. I had to blink my eyes a couple of times to make sure I’d really seen it.

There are a lot of variables that go into fly fishing success. You’ve got to have the right fly, both in size and color. Are the fish taking bugs below the surface of the water or are they feeding on top? Do you have enough leader length so the fish can’t see your fly line? Is your fly drifting too fast; is it skating? Are you casting far enough ahead of the trout, and is your fly drifting through their window of vision? Heck, are there even any fish in this pool? Clearly, there are a lot of question marks.

It is for these reasons that fly fishermen are different than other anglers. We aren’t fishing for meals. We aren’t using live bait. We don’t use fish stringers and live wells. Heck, we even refer to our bobbers as ‘strike indicators.’ It’s more important how we are fishing than catching fish. Sounds snooty, sure, but it doesn’t have to be. I didn’t choose the fly-fishing life, it chose me.

Because of how fly rods are built it isn’t easy to horse in a big fish once it’s hooked. It’s usually quite apparent whether a trout is heavy or not based on how it holds itself in the water once it’s hooked. It amazes me how trout can leverage themselves against the pull of the line with seemingly nothing to leverage against except water. It’s baffling.

The best cast of the evening was when my fly gracefully landed at the edge of the reeds at the top of the pool. Figure skating a choreographed dance it elegantly and casually sauntered along; the fly slowly working its way downstream. Suddenly a flash and a fish is hooked. And glory be – it’s holding deep. Now I just need to play it out, get some line hauled in, and it’s coming to the net. Perfect, if I do say so myself. A 14-inch fish is just about perfect on this evening.

A few more casts in nearly the same location produces another fish of equal size. Man oh man, that doesn’t happen every day. But it happened on this day! I’ll take it.

The day was nearing its end. A whippoorwill was calling back in the pines. I’m nearly 60-years old now, when night nears my thoughts turn to comfy chairs, a glass of wine and the orange cat that lives with me and my wife. A few more casts should complete the day, fish or no fish.

And it’s over.

Back at the truck, putting my gear away, I let the little fake fly rest in my hand. It is torn to shreds; it hardly resembles the fly I’d tied on the week before. It’s fought and coaxed and done its job without complaint. The fly has given everything it had to catch a few fish. Soon, perhaps even now, it will be put away and its memory lost to the ages. Who will remember the fly, and what it has done here? Who will remember the good times? Who?

The decision to fish ended up being the best decision I made on this day. Here I am, on the Namakagon River.

Darrell Pendergrass lives in Grand View. And no, you can’t borrow his pen.