Fishing with Floyd

From middle to late winter, trout and fly fishing are on my mind. I cheer up when my fishing license arrives in the mail every January. When fly fishing catalogs arrive, I pour over them for hours, while the sun slowly melts the snow outside. I start to get serious when I reorganize my tackle box in preparation for the season. While I do this, I snicker to myself as I paw through the contents. It reminds me of Gary Larson's cartoon with two cats huddled over a chocolate box filled with mice, greedily purring, "Oh, look how yummy this one is! I want to try that one!"  As I weed through my tackle, I realize that this has more priority now than previous years' jewelry organization. At one time, my priority was to frivolously sift through gold and silver jewelry to decide what to wear with which outfit, to what event, with which man, and for what purpose? My fishing flies are more fulfilling than baubles to me, and I look forward to once again catching that wild brookie. Fishing heals my soul.   I sift through and discard little gifts from friends who meant well: a battery-powered fan for a baseball cap gets tossed, as well as the fly floatant cream; spray is handier. Rusty hooks are thrown away. Would I really wear a cap with a huge, molded-plastic largemouth bass' head on the brim, replete with plastic tail protruding from the back? It is tacky enough to keep, so I put it aside. I find a March Brown which draws me back to a cold, rainy, spring morning on the Rose River.  On the Rose, when I cast at a one o'clock angle, a trout casually hit this March Brown fly that I am holding. Floyd, my father, stands next to me saying, "Now be patient;

let him take the line a little; let him get tired." Meanwhile, you could hit me with a baseball bat, and I would not have let that line go! I slowly bring the line in, then let it be pulled back, and laugh each time the trout takes off with it. After several minutes have passed, he tires, and I gently pull the golden-brown, speckled gleam through the water towards the riverbank. He's mine!  Maybe I can talk Floyd into starting the season off at Passage Creek, which is near Strasburg, Virginia. I know of a mountain spring near the creek that is filled with watercress. Fresh watercress is sublime served with smoked cheese and poppyseed dressing in a dinner salad to accompany the trout filets sautéed in butter with almonds.  I sort through some more of my tried-and-true flies that I will use to draw out these crafty brook trout from the stream shadows. The flies are almost as lovely as the trout itself. A fat, fluffy Wooly Bugger, a pretty little March Brown nymph, a Royal Coachman with a forest green tip and bright red hackles, a Grizzly Wulff for those larger trout I know I will catch, and a dainty Blue Wing Olive all seem to be a fine start. I will need more 3x and 4x leaders to go with those, and I have to replenish my hooks to bait with greasy, smelly salmon eggs.   Peering further into my box, I make notes that I will need to order more spoons for the herring and shad on the Rappahannock River, and I may as well add yellow and white poppers to my list for this summer's small mouth bass on the Shenandoah River. Ah, the Shenandoah. My first bass caught on a fly rod with this mangled yellow popper came out of the Shenandoah. I think back to that morning. At 5:30 a.m.,

 I throw on my clothes, rig a leader with this yellow popper, and groggily make my way down to the river's edge. I cast at one o'clock between two large trees in shallow water, and WHAM! I hook the largest small mouth that I have ever caught; it is twelve inches in length. 
 I started fishing as a toddler, on a stream at my grandparents' farm in Virginia. The fishing implements I used to catch the first fish of my life were jerry-rigged by my grandfather: a long straight stick for a rod, thin cotton twine for the line, a shiny safety pin as the fishhook, and a tiny piece of green apple for bait. I feel sorry for those who think fishing is a waste of time, and do not care to believe my fish story. They cannot equate with the transcendental experience which hooked me for life, quite a bit longer than a man ever could. Bill Tapply, a renowned author of many fishing tales wrote once, "I don't remember how I got hooked on fishing. I think it's hereditary." I think he has a point.


G. Wilson Jones, 2000

Bulletin, continued

of larger fish was entirely the result of his recognition of our finny brothers' right to live and breed in a stress-free environment and not, as some witlings claimed, the result of a total lack of angling skill.
The VanDeman family, contacted late Labor Day evening, declined comment on the incident but did release the menu for its evening meal. Supper consisted of succulent filet mignon with a savory stuffing of mozzarella cheese, chopped spinach, crab meat, garlic, rosemary and feta cheese. A side dish of angel's hair pasta with roasted red and green pepper in a balsamic sauce was also presented. Peach Melba was served as dessert.