It was only then I realized the weight-forward section was no longer attached to the rest of the line; the line had come apart in mid-air. Apparently the company that made it hadn’t yet quite perfected the process for joining thick and thin sections together. Perhaps it never did, because within a few years the company disappeared, just like the business end of my new line.
Other manufacturers were quick to take its place, however, and over the years they’ve carried the weight-forward idea to some ridiculous lengths, if you’ll pardon the expression. Now the market is saturated with lines made for a variety of specific tasks that once would have seemed unimaginable. There are different tapers tailored specifically for trout, bass, bonefish, tarpon, steelhead, salmon, panfish, pike, muskies, redfish, billfish, striped bass, bluefish, permit, and maybe for some other species I haven’t yet seen advertised. There are also tapers made specifically for use with streamers, nymphs, or bass bugs, other lines made expressly for saltwater or stillwater fishing (but not both), still others for use only in warm or cold water (but not both) or for the tropics. And don’t forget shooting heads, or the new family of tapers for two-handed or Spey rods.
Most of these lines also come in an exciting variety of designer colors with names like peach, mustard, ice blue, sage, glacial, moss, camo, goldenrod, lime, and buckskin. Next thing you know some manufacturer will come out with lines designed for use only in Standard Time or Daylight Saving Time (but not both). They’ll come in colors with names like peanut butter, pomegranate, or dental floss.
Forgive me for being cynical, but I have to wonder whether all these specialized designs, tapers, and colors really serve any useful purposes, or if they are merely the result of clever marketing techniques, or perhaps both. I don’t profess to know the answer, but for whatever it’s worth, I will say I’ve had better results on tropical flats with a “bonefish taper” than with a standard, garden-variety weight-forward line. So maybe there’s more to all this than mere marketing hype.
But one thing I do know for sure: The explosion in fly-line designs has been accompanied by an explosion in their prices. I paid $8.50 for that first weight-forward line, the one that flew away. It was 105 feet long, which was more or less standard then, and that meant it cost about eight cents a foot. Recently, on a day when the weather was too nasty to go fishing, I spent time comparing the cost of 141 modern fly lines from five different manufacturers and found the average line now costs 69.6 cents a foot—more than eight times what I paid for my first weight-forward line. Many new lines also are less than 105 feet long; if you double-haul one of them, you might find yourself holding onto the backing.
The least expensive line among those sampled was thirty-two cents a foot, but it was an unexciting, non-designer color (brown). Even so, it was nearly four times the price of my first ill-fated weight-forward line (which was a monotonous non-designer green). The most expensive line in the sample cost $2.30 a foot, but it was a twenty-three-foot shooting head. As a rule, I found the shorter the line, the higher the cost per foot. I guess that’s not surprising.
Why do these specialized new lines cost so much? Inflation surely has a lot to do with it, and of course there have been great—and sometimes costly—improvements in the quality of fly lines; they don’t often come apart in mid-air anymore, for example. Perhaps economies of scale also are no longer possible because of all the different specialized tapers manufacturers are producing. It also probably costs more to make lines in all those exciting designer colors.
So maybe the higher prices are justified. That’s especially true if you compare the price of fly lines with some other fishing essentials that are measured by length, such as fly rods, wading-boot laces, cigars, and wader belts.
Consider a nine-foot, 6-weight fly rod. A comparison of prices of forty-one graphite models from six manufacturers (only a small fraction of the total number of nine-foot 6 weights on the market) showed an average cost of $348.59 per rod. That works out to $38.73 a foot.
Replacement laces for your wading boots come in seventy-four-inch lengths and $4.95 seems the standard price, although one tackle catalog sells them for $7.95. That’s only eight cents a foot at the former price—reminiscent of my first weight-forward fly line—or thirteen cents at the latter price, still apparently a bargain. Remember, though, these laces are not tapered. And they usually don’t come in designer colors.
It almost goes without saying that a well-equipped fly fisherman should always have at least one cigar in his pocket, and you can buy a Cohiba Classic Toro over the internet for an average price of $9.15. The Toro is six inches long, so that works out to $18.30 a foot. The Nub, another popular cigar, is nearly as short as its name; the Nub 460 Connecticut measures just four inches but costs an average of five dollars. That’s fifteen dollars a foot—a lot more expensive than a fly line.
As for wader belts, you have a choice of plain old ordinary black or camo colors. The standard price is $3.90 a foot for black and $6.51 a foot for camo. They both come in a standard length of forty-six inches—just about the right size for a weight-forward fly fisherman. But they aren’t tapered.
That’s how things stand right now, anyway. Prices subject to change without notice.
PART II:
MIDSEASON
“If I’m not going to catch
anything, I’d rather not catch anything
on flies.”—attributed to Bob Lawless
A SEASONAL PASSION
FIRST IMPRESSIONS are always the most vivid and memorable. So it is, years after the event, I still remember my first summer-run steelhead on the fly as clearly as if I had caught it only moments ago, as if its fresh river scent were still clinging to my hands.
I remember nearly everything about that day: how the air felt warm and gentle after the previous day’s rain, how the sky was a hot summer blue and the thick woods were bright with summer foliage. I remember the river, low and clear and friendly in its reduced August flow, its deep-throated winter sound having long since lapsed into a relaxed summer murmur.
I remember the fly, a small dark pattern, and the pleasure of casting a long line that carried it to the far side of the run I had chosen to fish. I remember the run as well, a slice of deep water with large boulders whose dark, amber-gray shapes could be seen dimly beneath the gently rippled surface.
But most of all I remember what happened next: how, after only a few moments of fishing, the drifting fly came suddenly to a hard stop as if stuck fast on a submerged limb; how I lifted the rod cautiously to test the resistance and felt a throbbing surge of strength at the other end; how the line began cutting through the water and peeling swiftly off the reel.
I remember the jump, the glorious sight of a great gleaming fish suddenly, incredibly tumbling through the air end over end like a huge silver football. I can still see it as if it were recorded on a film running in slow motion through my memory, a film I watch often and never grow tired of seeing.
I remember the ebb and flow of the battle that followed and how I finally eased the exhausted fish into shallow water near the shore and knelt down to behold it, and how suddenly it seemed as if all the brightness of the river had somehow transferred itself to the fish, with sunlight sparkling from each individual sculptured silver scale. For me it was a moment of deep feeling, not only because of the beauty of the living treasure at my feet, but because it was the first steelhead I had ever taken without assistance or coaching, and it had been long and hard in coming. My memory of it remains as clear and strong as the instinct that brought the fish halfway across the world to the pool where I caught it.
I also know now what I did not know then: That fish would change my life—indeed, is changing it still.
More than forty years have passed since the August morning of that encounter. Before that day I had never been a confirmed steelhead angler. I had cut my angling teeth on trout and they were still my first love. On winter days I would pass up the crowded steelhead rivers and slip away instead to exp
lore saltwater estuaries for enigmatic sea-run cutthroat; in summer I would head into the mountains to prospect for trout in alpine lakes and ponds, again leaving the steelhead rivers to others.
Young as I was then, I was still preoccupied with the need for angling success, and steelhead fishing seemed a highly uncertain prospect compared with trout fishing of almost any kind. When I fished for steelhead at all—which was not often—I did so with bleak expectations, a prophecy that always proved self-fulfilling. Each time it fulfilled itself I would return to my more faithful and willing trout.
A large part of the difficulty was that I had little idea what I was doing when it came to steelhead fly fishing. I was determined to learn everything myself, without help—a prospect, I now realize, that was both foolish and stubborn.
That approach, combined with an impatience that kept me from spending the time necessary to learn anything meaningful about steelhead, meant that I progressed slowly, if at all, until finally I was taken under the wings of two generous older and much wiser steelhead anglers, Enos Bradner and Ralph Wahl. With their coaching and instruction, I began to learn the things that eventually led to that first summer steelhead on the fly.
That fish, and the others that soon followed, had a profound effect on my angling habits. Summer trout were quickly forgotten; suddenly I had no thought for anything but steelhead. Without realizing it was even happening, I had been seduced by their power and grace. Each time I experienced their wild, primal strength I felt as if I had somehow tapped into one of nature’s deepest veins, a vein flowing and throbbing with hidden truths and meanings. It was like a narcotic, and I was becoming an addict.
Summer steelhead became my pastime, my preoccupation, my consuming passion.
And so they are still. But it is strictly a seasonal passion; I have never quite developed the same feeling or affection for winter steelhead that I have for summer-runs. It’s not for lack of trying—I fish for winter steelhead whenever weather and circumstances permit—but it is never quite the same as summer fishing, and I do not feel quite the same about it.
In my part of the world the first big runs of winter steelhead usually enter the rivers early in December, and that’s when the first big crowds of winter steelhead fishermen head out to fish for them. Sometimes I go along, searching the crowded rivers for a place where a fly fisherman can practice his sport, but such places are increasingly hard to find near the cities. So instead I often revert to my old estuary habit and spend my winter days exploring the ever-restless tides for schools of cutthroat. Sometimes I find winter steelhead in the estuaries, too, and it is always a welcome treat to come upon them, but their presence is never a sure thing.
Crowded rivers are certainly one reason I have never developed a strong allegiance for winter steelhead fishing. The industrial-strength tactics usually employed to fish the winter runs also are less appealing to me, as is the frequent necessity of exposing one’s self to fairly brutal and extreme weather conditions. The weather also limits opportunities; on many winter days the rivers are too high and dirty to think of fishing, a circumstance that probably contributes to the size of the crowds on those days when fishing is possible.
Winter also affords only limited hours of daylight in the northern latitudes where steelhead dwell, so even if other conditions are favorable, an angler can scarcely hope for more than eight or nine hours of fishing time—barely more than half the allowance of a summer day.
All these have something to do with my relative lack of passion for winter steelhead angling. But lest it seem as if I have merely become a fair-weather fisherman in my old age, let me quickly add that I think the truth is not so much that I do not love winter fish, winter rivers, or winter weather; it’s just that I love summer fish, summer rivers, and summer weather so much more.
One reason I feel that way is the willingness of summer rivers to reveal so much of themselves. In summer the water is low—most of the time, anyway—and it is possible to see the rocky ribs and vertebrae that give each river its form and shape and substance. I like this because it gives me a chance to know a river on the most intimate terms, to gain an understanding of it that I could never obtain in winter.
Summer also offers the chance to employ lighter tackle and more subtle tactics. Winter steelhead fishing has always seemed to me a contest of brute strength and endurance, with heavy rods, heavy lines, and heavy flies; summer fishing, by contrast, requires finesse—a careful approach, quiet wading, and the use of light tackle, light lines, and small flies. Even more important, summer offers opportunities to use a riffle-hitched dry fly or traditional upstream dry-fly presentation with confidence in the result—something usually lacking in winter fishing.
Sometimes in summer the water is even low and clear enough to reveal a steelhead or two holding cautiously in a well-chosen lie, and that is the best circumstance of all. For me there is nothing more exciting than being able to see and stalk an individual fish, then watch its response as I change flies or tactics, trying to tease the fish even as with its visible presence it teases me. Such opportunities come rarely in winter.
Summer rivers have many other charms. The tracks of birds and small animals in the wet sand along the shores of a river reveal countless fascinating dramas if one takes the time to study and decipher them. Much of interest is also to be gleaned from the tumbled rocks on the river bars. The earth’s skeleton is here revealed, with all the topsoil stripped away, and the exposed gravel bars of late summer offer a glimpse of what lies beneath everything but is seldom seen. I find pleasure in studying these things and wonder about the origins of these rocks and whether they came from deep within the earth, spewed up by some hellish volcanic fire, or if they were crushed into hardness by the relentless pressure of some ancient sea.
But there is still more to be seen. Sometimes along the riverside path I will find the telltale sign of a bear that has been raiding a nearby orchard, or a vantage point from which to watch a stately blue heron fish the river shallows with a quiet patience that seems measured in light years. Feisty kingfishers are common, and I love hearing their raucous chatter and watching their darting flight from limb to limb; I often think that if I were a bird I should want to be a kingfisher and live near rivers.
An osprey sometimes circles overhead in its aerial hunt, and beyond it an eagle cruises at even higher altitude, hoping the osprey will drop its catch. Swift mergansers fly up and down the river like feathered missiles, and the riverside foliage is continually alive with the quick movement and songs of robins, finches, cedar waxwings, and other birds. At twilight the nighthawks and bats swoop down to feed among the hordes of insects rising from the river, and it’s amusing to toss pebbles in the air and watch the gullible bats chase after them in sonic confusion.
But of all the sights and sounds along a summer river, I most love watching the homely little water ouzel hop and bob from rock to rock along the river’s edge. If I am lucky, the ouzel also will favor me with its extraordinarily sweet song.
All these things form an important part of the attraction of summer steelhead fishing, and they never fail to give me immense satisfaction—but I do not allow them to distract me from the fundamental point and purpose of my presence on the river: I am there to catch steelhead. That remains the basic reason and the goal, the final inducement that draws me to the river like a moth to a flame. When all else is said and done, the ultimate experience of summer steelhead fishing is still to witness the graceful rise of a bright fish to a floating fly, to set the hook, and enjoy the spectacular fight that follows.
I came to summer steelhead fly fishing too late to enjoy the best of it. But I was fortunate to come in time to know some of the generation of anglers who first defined the sport.
Enos Bradner and Ralph Wahl were among them, and no angler could have wished for a better pair of mentors than they were to me. Mostly through them, I was also fortunate enough to meet many others, men like Tommy Brayshaw, Walt Johnson, Frank Headrick, Roderick Haig
-Brown, Mike Kennedy, Don Ives, Ken McLeod, Al Knudson, Wes Drain, Joe Pierce, and Syd Glasso. I learned from all of them, since all had made their own significant contributions to the sport, and some became my fast friends.
Sadly, all are gone now. Gone with them are most of the wild summer steelhead, although surely that was no fault of theirs. The fishermen were victims of old age, the fish victims of logging, dams, industrial and real-estate “development,” highway construction, commercial fishing, and all the other evils that men do to fish, best summed up as poor stewardship.
Paradoxically, in the years the wild runs were dwindling, the number of anglers fishing them was increasing exponentially. Now much smaller numbers of fish must be shared among a much larger population of anglers, at least on the heavily fished rivers, and the inevitable result is that each angler catches fewer fish.
This is not a pleasant thing to contemplate, but the consequences have not all been bad. It’s a fact of life in angling as well as economics that when demand is up and supply is down, those responsible for generating the demand will find new ways of getting what they want. This has certainly been true of steelhead fly fishers, and it has inspired the development of many new and innovative fishing tactics in recent years, including the growing use of waking flies, upstream nymphs, and the greased-line method. Accompanying these changes have been great new strides in steelhead fly-tying techniques and materials.
These things eventually might have happened anyway, but the decline of summer steelhead runs coupled with the increasing population of anglers has undoubtedly hastened their development; together they represent enormous change from the conventional angling wisdom of a half century ago. Competition has necessarily made more sophisticated anglers of us all.
A Fly Fisher's Sixty Seasons Page 6
