You Don’t Know What You're Missing

Just as this time of the year sees the gradual return of songbirds to the mountains, I see similar harbingers of spring popping up on vehicles in town - the angling equivalent of microwave cooking, swipe left or right dating, and pre-mixed cocktails. I speak of permanent rod cases - the long, aluminum tubes attached to the roof racks of pick ups and SUVs. Designed to keep fly rods fully assembled, secure, and ready to fish at a moment’s notice, I can’t help but feel they represent another nail in the coffin of ritual, sacrificed at the altar of expediency.

“Spend more time fishing” the manufacturer proudly proclaims. Depending on one’s definition of fishing, it’s a claim difficult to refute. There’s no time wasted assembling or breaking rods down. Even better, the sturdy aluminum casing and fastening system keeps them safe from accident or light-fingered attention.

“So, what’s wrong with that?” you may ask. Well, pay attention and you can see that we live at a time when life’s journey is increasingly regarded as an impediment to the destination. One of the beauties and attractions of fly fishing is that it remains a pastime that seldom rewards short cuts or haste. There’s a ritual to follow that serves to calm and focus the mind, enriching the overall experience. For me, that ritual begins well before setting foot in the river.

Sitting on a tailgate too high to reach the ground, I force my feet into dried out wading boots that have seen too little action over the winter months. I notice there is an old fly stuck to the sole of one boot. Where it came from, or how long it has been there, I can only guess. The best place for it would be the trash but, who knows, perhaps it’s an omen? I add it to the motley collection on my fly patch.

Next, I unzip my rod case and withdraw the four pieces of the rod, carefully, one at a time, and lay them down on the tailgate next to me. Starting with the butt section, I join the pieces together, snugging them home. Once the last is in place, I sight along the guides and, satisfied everything is in line, proceed down the embankment to the river.

Here I sit for a time, watching the river and its surrounds for signs of life - insect, bird, fish - then spend a couple of minutes trying to locate the tip of the leader on the reel, finally dismantling it as the leader has slipped between the spool and seat.

Reassembled, I absentmindedly strip line from the reel. A bug of some description lands on the exposed flesh of my neck. I slap at it before realizing I should probably have been more careful and tried to find out what, exactly, it was, rather than the current indecipherable smear on my palm.

There is a dimple of a rise out on a foam line, and I excitedly thread the line through the guides, check the leader for knots and abrasions, and pause to select a fly. With nothing concrete to back up my hunch, I grab the one that was stuck to my boot. These things aren’t in season, but who knows? Since when did trout study logic?

I stand to cast and wonder why I am having difficulty getting line out. I realize that in the excitement triggered by the rising fish, I have missed threading the line through one guide. I move back to shore, cut off the fly, re-thread the line, retie the fly, and wade back out into the river. Too late. The fish has stopped feeding. After several minutes fruitlessly drifting the dry fly, I wade back to shore, cut it off, and tie on a nymph rig.

Later, back at the truck, I snip off the rig and set the flies down on the tailgate, forgetting their location until, removing my waders, I rediscover them as I sit back down on the tailgate, clad only in underwear. I reel in the line, nearly breaking off the tip as, still getting over the discomfort of withdrawing a fly from my posterior, I forget to remove the indicator from the line.

Just then a truck pulls into the parking lot. Out hops a young guy with tattooed arms and an easy confidence.

“How’s the fishing?’ he asks as he unlocks the rod vault to display three rods, fully rigged. “Should I take dries, or nymph?”

Get notified of each new issue. Sign up now.

“Sucker”, I think to myself. In such a hurry, you don’t know what you are missing.

About The Author

Hayden Mellsop is an expat New Zealander living in the mountain town of Salida, Colorado, on the banks of the Arkansas River. As well as being a semi-retired fly fishing guide, he juggles helping his wife raise two teenage daughters, along with a career in real estate.

Hayden Mellsop

Fly fishing guide. Real Estate guide.

Recreation, residential, retirement, investment.