At early dawn when the air is crisp
And you're standing knee deep in a beautiful rip
read more

At early dawn when the air is crisp
And you're standing knee deep in a beautiful rip
You see a trout rise to an unknown fly
Then your heart starts to thump and you wonder why
You're a neophyte fly fisherman.
You can measure the cast and study the lie
Then lengthen the line to make your first try
As you check the rod to get a good presentation
You hold your breath in solemn anticipation
You must be a fly fisherman!
The fly floats gently on its way to the trout
You know it will "take it" without a doubt.
You're all charged up and ready to strike
But the fly floats by because something's not right
You are still a fly fisherman.
You open your fly box and select a new fly
Then lengthen the tippet before the next try
Change your position to help with the cast
And hope you have made the right decision at last
Now you are a doubtful fly fisherman.

Fly fishing is a very pleasant amusement; but angling or float
fishing, I can only compare to a stick read more

Fly fishing is a very pleasant amusement; but angling or float
fishing, I can only compare to a stick and a string, with a worm
at one end and a fool at the other.

In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly
fishing. We lived at the junction of read more

In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly
fishing. We lived at the junction of great trout rivers in
western Montana, and our father was a Presbyterian minister and a
fly fisherman who tied his own flies and taught others. He told
us about Christ's disciples being fishermen, and we were to
assume, as my brother and I did, that all first-class fishermen
on the Sea of Galilee were fly fishermen and that John, the
favorite, was a dry-fly fisherman.

And for winter fly-fishing it is as useful as an almanac out of
date.

And for winter fly-fishing it is as useful as an almanac out of
date.

Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of
course I usually read more

Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of
course I usually fish the big waters alone, although some friends
think I shouldn't. Like many fly fishermen in western Montana
where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not
start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic
half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my
soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a
four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.