Muskoka Outdoors Network

Within moments he had tied on a small brown nymph, waded effortlessly into knee deep water and hooked into an an acrobatic, speckled trout. After he released the ‘chromed-out’ trout, he looked my way upstream and pointed to the dark pool I should land my fly into. I took a hesitant step into the cold stream as he continued downstream like a modern day fishing Moses.

The fast moving water seemed to retreat around him with every step. It was at that moment I knew that I had entered the water with a real Streamwalker.

When the fly, I tried to cast into the chosen pool, got hung-up in the branches on shore behind me – I knew my journey to becoming a Streamwalker was just beginning.

While untangling my fly line from the offending bush,  my eyes tried to ‘take-in’ where I was. I had never fly fished in an area like this before. It was like the pages of my favorite  fishing magazine had come to life and I was wading in a western Canada whitewater river. I was only 40 minutes from home and wading in a virtual trout paradise – somewhere on the Big East River. It was the kind of place only a Streamwalker would know about.

When I was ready to try a second cast, I noticed that the Streamwalker was already releasing a second trout. Amazed, excited and almost discouraged the words of another master came to mind,

“Do or do not. There is no try…”

I started my backcast and methodically started working the deep pool with a small Adams. Slowly, I began to work my way towards the angling master. It took me awhile to notice at the beginning, but I am pretty sure he would watch and anticipate my route down the noisy river. He would leave some pools and underwater ledges untouched by his fly. He at least hoped that the trailing rookie moving, clumsily, toward him might be able to tempt a wary trout.

That was the only mistake I saw him make. I could not catch anything but suspended branches behind me and hidden rocks in the babbling stream.

Halfway through our journey down this section of the Big East River, we both stopped and rested on rocky boulders. He asked me what I was using and hesitantly I showed him the tattered fly barely clinging to the hook.

“That’s no good,” he said. “Use one of these.”

I think he slowed time as he reached for my fly rod with its shortened tippet. The route downstream had been hard on it.

Before I could protest with any kind of significant resistance, he placed the reel back into my hands with a new marbly, green-beaded nymph and fresh section of fly tippet. This time our adventure continued with the Streamwalker showing me how to read the water for ambush points, rocky ledges, and depth changes. He reminded me to start my casting close and finish towards a 12′oclock position when I approached a new section of stream.

“The least amount of times your fly hits the water before you let it drift increases your chance for a strike,”, he instructed while I struggled to get my nymph to reach a suspended tree trunk on the far side. My friend made his way upstream to me and kindly gave me a lesson in false casting. My casting distance improved slightly after that but it became quickly apparent to me that I may not ever become a Streamwalker.

With a looming sunset on the horizon, we decided to make our way back to our vehicle. The walk back upstream was silent and tiring. The problem with fishing in a spot chosen by a Streamwalker – is the walk back. I found myself wanting to make one last cast back into the pools we had fished hours earlier. It did not help that I had not hooked any trout. Despite this fact, the experience of fishing in such an incredible and seemingly remote area made this trip very memorable.

Later that evening, I tried to explain to my father where I had just been fishing. It seemed my description of area landmarks triggered some old and almost forgotten memories in his mind. He shared some stories of, some 50 years past, how he had spent time on that very section of the river with his father. He then proudly announced that his dad had once caught some nice speckled trout in the very pool my adventure today started in.

It would seem that my grandfather was once a Streamwalker…

I say a moment.

It could be a period of time as well.

For me, it was about a fly cast 498. I was just about to shatter the glassy surface of the water by throwing my fly rod into it. Everything within a 25 foot radius of me could feel, and hear, the built up frustration within me. Intermixed (repeatedly) in my previous casts, were results that included hooking small overhead trees, my back side, blades of grass and a picnic bench. Somewhere, around cast 75, I heard the noise of a whip cracking and my fly line became a touch lighter. I had just launched my fly into sub-space on an ill-timed back cast.

I found out very quickly that watching someone on a fly fishing video or observing another fly fisherman can NOT be equated to being ‘well on your way’ in your fly fishing training. By cast 200 and something, I had put my back into spasm by twisting around to pull a tiny fly out of the ’seat’ of my pants. I took note of the obvious lesson here: go barb-less.

Casts 375 and 400 rolled around and I was getting that whip noise again and small knots on my tippet. I compensated and worked on the timing of my back cast and continued trying to launch my fly forward again.

That brings us back to cast 498 again. It represents those moments in our lives where we wanted to quit. All 497 ‘good enough’ setbacks seem to tip the scales to want to quit after that 498th botched attempt. It can be a critical time for anybody wanting to succeed. It’s critical because it does not take into consideration the potential reward of casts 499 and 500.

I overcame the urge to throw my fly rod into the water and worked my line up to prepare for cast 499. Unknowingly, everything became so routine now. I was thinking more of where I wanted the fly to go, then what I had to do to get it there. My line swished behind me – then back in front. My fly landed 10ft in front of me. No knots, no whipping, no boxer shorts attached. I repeated the process and, suddenly, I was at cast 500.

My fly went 20ft.

It was like something clicked and for the next hour I was able to place my fly in front of me at will.

What cast are you on in your difficult situation? If you quit now, you may be one cast away from success. Your current set of circumstances could be preparing you for what is to come. Take that hook out of your 'back-end' and work harder.

All the recent talk of possible military intervention and the establishment no fly zones over Libya, compelled me to share this story. It happened last spring while fishing downstream of my favorite fishing hole in the Muskoka River.

Several ‘regular’ (spinning reels) anglers watched me, with a curious interest, as I put my fly rod together and approached the riverbank. We were all here to hook into some trout that were moving up from Mary Lake to the Lock System. One could easily hook into a smorgasbord of Lake Trout, Rainbow Trout, and Speckled Trout.

Somebody was in my regular spot so I was forced to fish on a less than ideal section of the river. I did not have hipwaders, so this meant I had to fly fish from a portion of the bank surrounded with small trees. It was possible, but it would prove to be a difficult assignment for this rookie fly-thrower.

I started to get into my ‘groove’ of getting my fly out into the water when a slight tug behind me hooked my attention. My fly and attached fishing line could be seen (by myself and the surrounding anglers) dangling several feet in the air. I could hear quiet chuckling from the gathering spin casting crowd.

Embarrassed, I untangled my line and began my line ‘motions’ again. Things went very well for about 20 minutes. I became more confident in my casting and the line reciprocated by moving farther and farther out. The other spin casting anglers seemed to be very curious and interested in what I was doing. I reciprocated their stares with some 'cool-guy' nods and hand waves. My eyes stayed focus on the crowd in front and forgot the crowding trees on my six.

Shortly into my crowd pleasing spectacle, I did not see the small clump of birch leaves that fell and drifted downstream behind me. The leafy harbingers' warning went unnoticed and their silent passing ushered in a delayed, cold reality.

After 15 minutes  of my fish-less casting show, I thought I should change my fly. When I had all my line up to where I could reach for my tippet, I noticed that there was no fly attached.

I looked casually behind me and noticed it had, once again, lodged itself into the branch it had snared earlier.

Defeated, I pretended to take off my imaginary fly and quickly exited the river - stage right. For the sake of the brotherhood, I hoped that nobody noticed my dry fly indiscretion. I laughed the whole way back to my vehicle.

I have plans to return this coming spring, with my spin casting reel in hand, to remove a dry fly caught in an old birch tree and post a hand made sign that says,

No Fly Zone.

Just in case another rookie makes the same mistake I did.