Why the Fly?

I can't tell you when I first put a rod in my hand. Like an old home movie, the memories have faded and only bits and pieces are left. I can tell you I wasn't even in kindergarten yet and that it was most definitely at my grandparents farm in Woodland, Mississippi.

It was a bamboo pole with a length of line tied to its tip. A worn cork bobber sat above an old rusted hook, which was usually baited with a small chunk of hotdog or balled up piece of Wonderbread. At the time, it was the most beautiful thing in the world to me.

Their homestead was old- as only rural Mississippi can be. Giant walnut trees lead up from a gravel driveway to a clapboard house, which always seemed to be sitting at a tilt. The humming of cicadas was interrupted only by the rumblings of trucks carrying pine destined for paper mills, or an occasional train blowing a horn in the distance.

It was behind the house that I spent most of my days. Two ponds sat, holding promise of adventure. Tree's drooped their branches towards the tea stained water, and cat tails reached up to touch them. Turtles would scurry at my approach, though the snapping turtles would always resurface near my bobber to see what they might sneak from the hook. Many a time, I pulled in half a fish, or even more scary to a small boy, a menacing snapper with its lifeless red eyes glaring at me.

But I also caught sunfish and bream. Less often, a nice bluegill or catfish. Or, if I had earthworms and was really lucky, a bass. Each was a gift. I never kept anything as it was the catching, and not the keeping, that was the most fun. Besides, the fish (with the exception of the catfish...) were just too pretty to keep. Rich metallic golds, turquoise, reds, greens, and silvers. The rich transition from azure to purple in a bluegill's cheeks. They were living jewels.

I've done a lot of fishing since then and have pulled up everything from Norther Pike in Maine to Yellowfin Tuna in Mexico. But lately, I've found myself returning to that enjoyment of surroundings and the simple pleasure of seeing a beautiful fish release back to its waters.

Flyfishing is my antidote for midlife crisis; my church, my self help group, my medication. I don't regret that I didn't take to it sooner. Things can only happen when its time. I just focus on making sure I live in the moment and enjoy those very same feelings that came about on a small farm pond nearly 40 years ago.