The Bite: How I got hooked on fly fishing and life
I have many stories of venturing out with my dad and grandpa to go fly fishing, but the one that changed everything for me happened the year I turned 11. My golden birth year, as it turns out, would surprisingly and insistently define the rest of my life.
It was mid-summer, and our white 4 door ‘91 F-350 Ford truck, trailer in-tow, was aimed precisely at the great state of Montana. Our great uncle had moved there, so a visit was a convenient excuse to explore the west, rod in hand.
At the time, I had no idea that there was renowned trout fishing in this area. To me it was just another grand adventure. My parents made sure we had plenty of adventures in our young lives. Rarely extravagant, but always exciting. This journey was no exception.
We crossed the Oregon/Idaho boarder unremarkably, and soon found our way into the belly of the beast. An intense smell filled our nostrils. One that was uniquely unfamiliar, like flatulence from a stranger. After brawling with my siblings and cousin, battling to bestow blame on the rightful flatulentor, my dad called out. “It’s the oil fields guys.” He struggled valiantly to withhold the laughter building inside, but it was no use, and soon he and everyone in the car roared with laughter.
Although the smell made us laugh, the site of the barren and tormented land, along with the smell, was under worldly and I couldn’t wait to have it behind us. Even the suns light was dimmer in this place. My young catholic mind considered that it resembled what I imagined hell to be like.
Finally, we approached our first actual campsite which was a stark contrast to the hell we had just passed through. Excited to unbind my legs, I jumped from the truck enthusiastically and ran to the top of the closest hill. The sight that filled my young eyes was captivating and magical. Rolling hills of shiny green grass that waved like kelp in the sea when nudged by the gentle breeze stretched out to greet the horizon. Wildflowers were sprinkled throughout the deep green land, as if painted in by a masterful artist. I drew the warm air into my lungs and felt the very essence of life fill my body and nourish my soul. I still go back there from time to time in my mind. It’s become an island of refuge when reality isn’t so beautiful.
It took us three days to make it to my great uncles place, but the long journey was well worth it because he had riding lawn mowers!!! We maneuvered them around his large parcel of land like formula one drivers. No blade of grass would remain untouched for long. I thought that would be the climax of the trip, and likely could have spent all day driving those things around, but that is not what fate had in mind. I was to become a fly fisherman on this trip, or put another way, intensely connected to both my heritage and the dust from which I came. I would learn to not only admire nature, but to love it and be one with it.
Our first morning in Montana came early, and we must’ve drove 90 miles on a “road” that pretty much resembled the rest of the rocky and uneven terrain around. Looking back, I don’t think it was a road at all. My uncle had just picked a direction, locked the steering wheel in place with his knee, and slammed it in gear. Eventually we came to a stream that had every ambition to become a river, but its stubborn banks and finicky headwaters stunted it’s growth. It would remain in between a river and creek for all of it’s days.
The men of the family were off before we knew it. I straggled behind, wrestling with my hip boots that were 5 sizes too large. My dad had given me my very own fly box and loaded it up with some of the essentials. I remember feeling such freedom and creativity as I slowly examined each one, judging which looked the fishiest. The fly I landed on was an olive-green dragon fly nymph with tiny black eyes. I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that I would be successful with this fly. I quickly tied the fly onto my line utilizing the only not I knew, which, was the same not I used to tie my shows… a bow. I set out upriver/creek and found a trout sanctuary under a lush willow that hugged the far bank. It’s many branches denying the powerful sun access to the aquatic world below. Whipping my line properly, I managed to get the fly to land close enough to the intended target. It had barely dipped into the cool spring fed water when a massive splash disrupted the surface. I yanked hard on my rod and the fish began to jump, roll, and tug in an epic battle of boy vs. wild. Then it happened… the line went slack, and I tumbled backwards until I landed crisscross-apple sauce in the middle of the creek. I sprang back to my feet, undisturbed by my wet britches, franticly bow-tying a new fly to my line. Again, the fish hit! However, the rush of excitement was quickly extinguished by the feeling of my line again going slack. Many good flies lost their lives that day. In fact, all of the flies my father had bestowed on me had been loosed to the many fish that had taunted by excited eyes. What’s worse is that I managed to get all the teenage fish in trouble with their parents for sporting Caddis fly lip rings.
Frustrated with my success as a young piercing artist, I made my way back to the truck, which was conveniently parked right by a swimming hole. I let my disappointment fade and joined the other kids on their patrol for crayfish. What I didn’t know at the time, was that I had committed in my mind, to landing a large fish on a fly rod. The disappointment had actually transformed into a deep desire to turn my failure into a win.
As soon as my dad strolled back to us, I ran to him and disclosed my experience. “I could see the fish dad! He was HUGE!!!”
My dad immediately went over to examine the rod I had been using, probably worried he had left me with inferior gear. “The lines not rotten… your drag is good…” then he paused, noticing that the end of the leader was wrapped in tight circles like the end of a bow on a gift. “Branden, show me the knot you were using.” He stated gently as a hypothesis clearly grew in his mind. “Sure dad, it’s just like I tie my shoes, see?”
“Ok, I see. Let’s teach you a new knot. This one is a little sleeker, so the fish won’t notice it. I’ll also show you how to secure it, so that your knot doesn’t come undone mid-fight.”
And that’s how I learned to tie on my flies, the right way.
That evening, we went to a lake that was directionally close… but took much longer to get to than you’d think via our boulder highway. The lake was set into a series of hills that were covered in tall pine trees. It was absolutely breath taking. I mused that God had probably consulted Bob Ross when creating this particular landscape. The best part was that there was an epic Caddis hatch! The water was boiling with hungry fish. I literally caught a fish every single cast, and they were big. My earlier defeat had become merely a stop on the road to success.
I was smitten by the sport as many who try it are, but more than that, my approach to life had been fundamentally changed. By that, I mean that I knew disappointment wasn’t the end of the story. Failure just meant that I was alive, and on my way to something greater. And so, I became a fly fisherman. Passionately in love with the journey of life.
Written by Branden Carpenter