Can You Cast A Vote as well as you Can Cast a Fly?

I believe that when a person picks up a Fly Rod and performs any sort of cast into the water they are creating a moment that goes well beyond the possibility of catching a fish.

Days on the water are experiences and memories. An individual act that bears no singular definition, yet, we all feel a general sense of common revelation that’s not entirely simple to define. In easy terms I’d say: Time spent fly fishing is good for the body, the mind and the soul.

Which is why I will always stand behind a cause that shows others who may be struggling physically or emotionally the wonderful healing benefits fly fishing offers. The Adaptive Fly Fishing Institute  is in the running for the Pepsi sponsored Refresh Project. If they were to get enough votes by March 31st, they could take 10 wounded soldiers to Hawaii for an Adaptive Fly Fishing trip. I have a deep respect and admiration for those serving in the military and this is a cause everyone can easily support.

It takes a minute of your time, a few clicks of the computer cursor, an email address and you’re done. Simple. Easy. Worthwhile. Want to make a bigger difference? Feature this cause on your own website, blog, twitter, facebook. Spread the word!

Voting Link : (Click Anywhere in this swanky grey box)
Take 10 Wounded Soldiers to Hawaii for an Adaptive Fly Fishing Trip
~All the details described on the Voting Page~
Thank You!!

Rebecca

The River High and The River Low

When I was out fly fishing last Sunday, one of the comments I got was a general observation, but it’s the one I’ve been thinking about as a general river theme. One man remarked after asking me how the fishing was (not good),”Well the river is pretty low right now.”
Yes. And that means? I wanted to ask him, but held my thought to myself.

This is where my personal experience, a sheltered bubble of fly fishing innocence (or ignorance) falls into play. My lack of interaction with all things common fly fishing opinion and technical knowledge over the past 10 plus years puts me into an undisturbed, uninfluenced state of fishing spirit. 80% of what I do or know has been established through personal trial and error rather then credible advice or instruction. I’ve yet to decide if that is a good thing, or a bad thing.

The thing is, when I turned the chapter in my fishing life from metal chucker to fly floater, I had assistance in several of the basics: fly choices, casting, presentation among other beginner instruction. However, I was pretty much left to my own devices when it came to river choices, time on the water, areas to visit and reading the water. Although I had heard rumors about things like river flow and water temperature, I humbly admit, I shrugged it off. Such technical assessments I deemed best left to those who actually knew what they were doing. I just wanted to go out and fish, regardless of prevailing ‘conditions’…

Because I didn’t know any better, or didn’t care, I’ve fished rivers when they were roaring over their banks flooding into the trees and I’ve fished when everything was just a trickle with tiny little holding pools. Some of my best memories or fishing days —the type where you force yourself to stop casting because the sun has been behind the mountain for almost an hour and tying on a new fly by the light of a match starts to burn up a lot of tippet— were on rivers that may have been considered ‘unfishable’ ….sometimes, ignorance really is bliss.

The one exception or perhaps it’s a concession, is blown out rivers that have turned the color of brown hotel carpet. Although I have caught fish under such conditions, it wasn’t easy and times like those earn a humble place in the tenacious (desperate) category of a fly fishing life. Not exactly memorable, but earns points for effort.

Over the years I’ve read fishing reports that made it seem like if you simply drove to a river, tossed in some dental floss with a safety pin tied to the end you would catch fish–”"The river is on FIRE it’s so smoking good”"– yet when I got there it didn’t seem that great, or even good. Just the opposite, I’ve read reports that moaned depression like conditions in a sluggish river economy and I’ve hit the jackpot in fishing riches. (To be fair, I have ! read fishing reports that were spot on, which is always a nice surprise) So either some fishing reports are just screwing with me, for fun and all, or everyone forgot to inform the fish what was expected of them or…..fishing simply defies logical expectation.

So all of that begs the question. How much do you all put into fishing reports, river flow, optimum fishing conditions? Will a flooded river put an end to your day? Will a dire fishing report inspire you to stay home and finish your ‘honey do’ list instead?

An inquiring mind wants to know ~ Me

Rebecca

The Fly Fishing Film Tour and Swag Girl

On Saturday night I swallowed any public shyness I harbor, summoned my bravado and faced the ultimate herd of Fly Fisherman collected into one spot (without water) and went to the Drake Fly Fishing Film Tour as it passed through Boise Idaho.

When I first learned it was coming to town I had devised a plan. Buy a ticket, drive to event, wear my trusty fly fishing hat low over my brow and simply slink in and slink out. A bit like my normal Fly Shop routine.

However, the week prior to the film, I met via the Internet medium and phone, a local fly fisherman and custom rod builder, Steve Vance. We talked fishing a few times and the day before the showing, he called and asked me if I would help him and the tour out by passing out hats at the event.

By saying ya, sure, I can help out (handle it), I blew my incognito plan out like a river in early June run off. Next thing I knew I was party crashing the Idaho Angler pre-film gathering which was a great get together at a local fly fishing shop. Then we headed down to the theater and I became part of the Film Tour swag team! Talk about a good deal…and this is for everyone…for the price of one ticket you got entrance to the movie, a Fishpond hat, a Belize DVD, a Costa Del Mar sunglasses retainer and a swanky program….passed out in a frenzied blur by yours truly. (My only gig was Boise, sorry)

At one point the event guy running the actual theater told Steve and I to pick up the pace because the line of frothing fly fisherman stretched around the block. If I had a second to spare I would have explained to him that this was bonus swag of the fly fishing nature and such treasures shouldn’t be hurried. Instead of stating the obvious, I flung goodies as fast as I could. Hundreds of people had to pass by me and accept my swanky offerings, but I’ll be damned if I remember a single one in that blur. But…it was all good, I was like the fairy godmother of fishing.   

When the line finally stalled and the movie started, Steve and I raced into the theater to find a seat in the dark. Since this is the first time I’ve ever seen it, I have nothing to compare to past years films, but I really enjoyed myself. I can’t imagine a better time to tease the fly fishing soul and wet the parched lips of winter locked hysteria than a February film of fish temptations. Have a touch of Cabin Fever? Go see the Fly Fishing Film Tour for 3 hours of jealousy and visual pleasure.

I did have the pleasure of meeting Thad Robinson, Marc Crapo (stunning Indiana Jones satchel) and Jay (thank you for the t-shirt!) along with one special lady who seems to have as bad a luck as I do in the raffle department. Julie…lets go fishing soon!  

All in all, I’m very glad I went.

Rebecca

P.S. as a former swag swinger for the Fly Fishing Film Tour, a piece of advice. Get your tickets early and furthermore, get in line early! Some swag ran out and the stragglers only got a hat and program! Early hatch gets the biggest rewards ~

P.P.S. Hey John Dollar (who writes Seven Bridges Road) I waited and waited to be haunted, spooked, or at least feel the cold air of ghosts at the Egyptian Theater all night, but the only scary thing in the whole theater was the screaming fly fisherman =)

Fly Fishing on a stage while playing the Midge

On Sunday I took Bandon the Bashful out for a Valentines Day event I knew she would appreciate more than say, a rawhide dipped in chocolate. We went to the local river establishment. A cheap venue, close to home, no-frills sort of date. She’s a dog, she’s easy to please.

I went to a new section of the river I’d never practised my casting on: a zone of water that I’m now torn over. In one regard, it’s a great stretch of water that provided a few nooks and crannies, seams and pools that I normally gravitate to. On the other hand, this stretch of river ended up (snuggling too close for comfort) right next to the walking path that partners with my local river for miles and miles.

Try as I might, I couldn’t ignore the fact that my choice of river locations for the day landed me square in the middle of lovers lane for Valentine walkers. Who would have thought every couple in my town would think a nice cold stroll along the river would emulate romanticism.

To me, fly fishing is a solitary act. An individual state of being wherein the practitioner goes to their happy place of mind and body. It’s like a Zen Fly Fishing Master whispers in my ear…..shhh…connect, be one with the river….

But on Lovers Lane Sunday, the Zen Master voice turned into a Cage Fight Announcer and chanted in my ear…..you have an audience! Catch a damn fish, these people are staring, waiting, cheering, watching, give ‘em a show!…..I realized I had waded myself into a spectator event and I was center stage. I admit it, I suffered from various degrees of stage fright. ( At one point I slowly turned around and counted 8 people stopped and watching me, I lost my happy place)

Not only did I have a constant stream of witnesses at my back, I had to submit my poor little flies for inspection several times. I guess if you have enough guys walking their ladies along the river, you’re bound to have a few fly fisherman sprinkled in the mix. Showing my flies in this manner always feels like a slim line between a Miss Fly America contest and the criminal line up at a police department. It’s either beauty approved or the guilty fly that belongs back in lock up…err,,,fly box. Thankfully my choice of flies got several nods of approval and no one said, “Umm, that fly only catches fish in Alabama.”

About the actual fish. I don’t wanna talk about them..(the dirty rotten)….  

The best thing to interrupt my happy place all day was confessionals from two–not one–but two other fly fisherman. They both confessed they had been skunked. It’s not JUST ME!! Praise the fish gawds ~

Isn’t it time for some fluffy caddis? Perhaps a big juicy salmon fly? Soon maybe? Like tomorrow? I’ve had about all the midge fun I can take…..

Rebecca

Public Service Announcement: A Fly Giveaway! In honor of the big red heart day we just had, Austin from 365 Fly Fish is giving away a dozen #18 Red Hot Nymphs by Feb. 19th. OR by the 30th comment on his blog. All you have to do is leave a comment….so get on over there, cast your comment and you just might score some new flies~ LINK ~~> Red Hot Nymphs Ohh lala spreadin’ the love

Fish Faces Only a Fish Mama Could Love

Once, when I was in Alaska, I was casting into the surf, just to see if I could entice a passing salmon or two. I was delighted when I felt the undeniable pull of a fish and I quickly reeled up my prize onto the sandy beach. The thrill turned to shock when I got a good look at my bounty. If my over-active imagination serves me correctly (and it’s had several years to over-exaggerate the situation), when that fish looked up at me it’s gills flared out with razor fish spikes and countless whiskers protruded from the sides of it’s huge mouth. As that fish glared at me, the razors and whiskers waved around just daring me to retrieve my spendy lure. I’m also pretty sure it hissed at me. That single ocean surprise fish became a star character in some reoccurring nightmares.

This is the entry where I risk displaying my true feminine side by talking about the looks of certain fish. This of course could be a me thing and surely no one else out there is phased by the appearances of fish, but there are a few species that give me the heebie jeebies.  

I’m pretty sure my aversion to certain fish started at a young age. I believe I observed as a young thang,  that say, a sucker, was properly greeted by revulsion and dismissed with a mandatory rock or two…Please remember, that was back then, before being politically fish correct was the right thing to do. As for what to do with a sucker fish in this day and age. No comment.

It’s a lip thing. The slurping bottom sucking pucker that makes me recoil and cut my line before I’d attempt to go in for a fly retrieval– even IF it was a favorite fly.. (Girlie Alert!) Yep, that’s right, I have my limitations on the guyish bravado front and I draw the line at sucker fish. The few times I’ve accidentally caught one I was appalled and quite frankly embarrassed through my trout heart that such a slimball crashed my fishing party.

I’m pretty sure I can blame suckers for my aversion to the whitefish. It’s the lip thing again. Their small rounded little fish lips are a visual reminder of all things sucker fish and distinctively non-trout-like. My prejudice is irrational, but drawn around a solid circle factor.

Trout have good lips, nice smile, straight teeth. Just saying….

When I judge a fish by it’s looks, it’s not limited to just the lips. There’s the whisker issue to mention.  I’m not sure why or when I took a disliking to the fish with whiskers, but on the whole, I’d rather not. The way I see it, moving whiskers that give out a grabby tentacle vibe should be avoided if possible. Basically, you’ll never hear a catfish report out of me.

Now, just to be clear, a website is one place to confess all sorts of shortcomings.  However, when I’m out on the water and find myself in the unfortunate situation of having an undesirable at the end of my line, I do remain stoically composed. Solid pride dictates a calm demeanor, play it cool and zero involuntary dry heaving motions are allowed, especially in the presence of (male) witnesses. I would never, ever…..

Although, if for some reason this following fish were to end up at the end of my leader I’m fairly certain I would either
1) Faint…no…make that swoon
2) scream like a little boy or
3) retire from fishing and take up shuffle boarding

Happy Valentines Day Everyone~
Rebecca

The Kindness of Fishermen

I’m not sure what the above fly is called, maybe the man who gave it to me told me, maybe he didn’t. The fly used to have little rubber legs and was a bit more fluffy and distinguished. Now it’s a piece of my vintage fly history and a testament to the kindness I’ve stumbled across while on the waterways.

The morning I was given that fly, I was sitting on the dirt bank of the Yellowstone River in Yellowstone Park. My fly rod was propped in the dirt leaning across my shoulder, my fly bag was tossed near my feet, open, ignored, and I was gazing out across the big Yellowstone watching risers that I couldn’t get close enough to. At the moment, I was feeling frustrated and defeated by my wading limitations.

Then he came along, a nameless man who just happened across my sovereign spot in the dirt. He stopped, asked me the normal fisherman pleasantries…how’s it going….have you caught any fish…I opted for honesty and told him that despite all attempts to love the Yellowstone River, she continued to toy with me, tease me and deny me reasonable (without the threat of death via drowning) wading entrance.

He pulled out a fly box and started sifting through it while he explained to me that although the Yellowstone liked to keep her treasured rising cutties out in the deep zones, the fish could be caught nearer to the bank if you know where to look for them. He pulled out the above fly, handed it to me and told me to walk along the bank and spot fish for underwater bank cruisers. Then he smiled, and was gone….

Honestly, I can’t remember if I caught a fish with that fly, but his kindness is something I’ve never forgotten. He’s not the only one who has given me flies on the riverbank over the years. I have a special little box I keep that holds the flies men (sadly, it’s all men, I rarely, if ever come across woman on the rivers) have graciously given me. I can be catching fish just fine, but I’ve noticed men like to stop, talk, and impress upon me their favorite, or secret fly for the day.

It isn’t just about the flies that have been given me, this kindness I write of, it’s the friendliness and willingness to offer conversation, wisdom or just a friendly smile to me…the anomaly on the river.  I’m not sure how it is for other men– the man to man interaction–on the water. But I have witnessed acts of kindness between guys that confirms this sort of graciousness isn’t just reserved for the pink elephant (me) wading in the water.

I believe in every persons life, it’s good to pause, look back and thank the people who made a good impression in your life. So today I’d like to publicly thank:

~The man on the Yellowstone River for a fly I would never have thought of. I don’t remember the fish of that day, but I remember your smile, your laughter and your kindness. The other men who have gifted me their secret flies over the years, if I didn’t lose them to fish, I’ve still got your flies.

~The two men (and dog) who rescued me from the wrong side of the South Fork of the Boise River with their drift boat after my death defying swim. I know I was frozen silent, embarrassed into stone, but I was grateful for the safe passage back to the other side. If it weren’t for you, I’d probably still be over there.

~I’d like to thank the man who came running up the river when he saw me fighting a huge fish on my little fly rod. Your passionate chase with your net did not go unnoticed, your gallant dive in the river was impressive and I’m sorry the fish ended up being a monster sucker fish. I told you it felt like I was hauling in a water logged tree that moved….not a steelie like you hoped.

~Thank you to all the guys who have offered marriage proposals over the years. I may never hold a big fish record, but I bet I’m in the running for the most proposals in a lifetime =)

~Thanks goes to the several different men who provided jumper cables, towing service and hitchhiker rides.

~Thanks goes to the fly shop manager who was beyond kind and helpful to me yesterday. You have renewed my faith in the local fly shop atmosphere…

~Thanks goes to all the people who have visited this site, commented, emailed and encouraged me along. I hope to run into you all on the river ~

Rebecca

Introspective Thought: A fishing side effect

Yesterday I tried to send January off under the bold banner of “FISH ON”  ~ So I braved the rugged lands, forged through rough water (I went to the local city river) and intentionally stood under the gray sky contemplating if the wet stuff that continued to fall on my head was snow, rain or a sweet cocktail of the two. As I parted water with my fly line, repetitiously, obsessively, my mind started to wander…

Introspective thought is just one of the many side effects a person can experience while fly fishing. Although I haven’t seen an actual warning label on say, new fly rods or reel purchases, my guess is the condition can be magnified when one isn’t catching fish. After switching flies like a politician who changes their vote repeatedly, my mind started to self sooth the obvious bad karma I’ve attracted. In other words, I created a list of possible reasons my fishing sucked…

10) My loyal and constant dog companion Bandon wouldn’t get out of the water and her shivering was vibrating the water in such a manner that all fish within my casting range were alerted to our presence.

9) I irritated Fly Fishing Santa when I requested he throw in some Elves with the new drift boat I wanted (he gave me neither) and now I’m Christmas cursed for the year.

8 ) I got new waders and removed the wet factor/ torture factor/ blackened frozen toes factor and without medieval pain, there is no gain.

7) I still can’t tie flies worth a shit and by some karmic flaw in the fly fishing doctrine I’m being punished until I can I find the inner enjoyment of such a hobby.

6) I brought a camera to the river. Not only did I bring a camera to the river, I put in fresh batteries and brought two spares along. A camera is like fly fishing suicide…for me.

5) I’ve read and enjoyed too much of The Unaccomplished Angler and his fishing karma has tragically attached itself to me via Internet contamination.

4) Trout heard I made a pact to be nicer to whitefish in the year of 2010 and in retaliation for my cheating ways, they have formed an “ignore all of Rebecca Garlock flies society.”

3) Whitefish heard I made a pact to be nicer to them in 2010. When the memo went out that I’d be swinging for them intentionally, they scattered, and took a “NO Whitefish for YOU” mantra.  My new inability to get a single one (when previously I couldn’t keep them away from ruining my flies)  is most baffling. (Any advice Whitefish Ed?)

2) I could just suck.

And lastly, as the sun set in the distance and I could no longer feel my fingers, toes or nose, it hit me. The number 1 potential reason my fishing has encountered such a tragic taste of skunk.

1) BLOG~ I started this fishing blog which suggests I should be catching fish to write about. In turn the blog creates a need to catch I never felt before. The consulation prize: I now get the pleasure of writing about not catching fish (oh the fun for readership..please accept my apology). I was toast, cursed and entered the gates of fishing hell the second I purchased my Internet domain to write about the fish I (was) catch (ing).

Rebecca

Big Fish, Little Fish…Photo Envy

If one were to observe the fishing magazines, or stroll through all the profile portraits on Facebook or even visit various fishing blogs and websites, one might start to think the only fish to be caught were monsters that require a forklift to haul them out of the water. It’s almost enough to nudge those of us who cast our flies for the little fish into short-fish complex territory.

I’d love to claim I’ve caught loads of huge fish over the years, but truth be told, I catch more little fish than big fish. In my Idaho-ish fishing world, anything over 20 inches I consider an achievement. I guess that’s the limitations of enjoying the quiet streams, ordinary rivers and unpopular small time fisheries..(ok, and my blessed trout family)

I need to get back out, travel a little ways and catch a few big ass steelies or a knarly salmon so that I can get my very own big fish picture to flash during the moments I’m overcome with a small fish photo complex. This sense of photo envy (not to be mistaken for fish envy because I like my little fish just fine) rears it’s ugly head when I’m online. Doesn’t anyone proudly display pictures of little fish anymore?

Now, just to be clear, I’ve got nothing against the big fish. I appreciate the big fish as much as anyone. I’ve caught sturgeon, king salmon in Alaska, regular plain jane salmon and steelhead. I’m not immune to the thrill and spend a lot of my summer in pursuit of the big boys which I’m sure I’ll document for the first time via this medium….if I can convince someone to be a photographer.

I started this fishy blog 3 months ago. Until that point in time, I’d been lacking a certain ‘public’ incentive to take pictures of my adventures in fly swinging….I’m attempting to change that oversight by actively seeking individuals who would be willing to come fishing with me on the condition that they are to drop their pursuit of fish and take action shots of me when the moment calls for it. So far, within my own small group of fishing buddies, my requests have been met with resistance.

For example: A conversation with a roughneck fisherman I’ve nicknamed Huck:
Me: Huck, I need you to come fishing with me and be my designated photographer.
HUCK: Whatdayamean?
Me: Well, you’ll need to stay close to me and when I catch fish you’ll have to take pictures.
HUCK: Whatdayamean?
Me: Pictures. I need some damn pictures. I need you to stop fishing for 5 seconds and take my picture.
HUCK: You’re joking right? You want me to be your river bitch?
Me: See, this is why I have so few pictures of me holding fish. I have a blog now and a responsibility to visually represent my time on the water. I neeeeeeddddd a big fish picture!
HUCK: You want me to stop fishing when there’s big fish biting and take pictures of you? Sounds like a personal problem to me.
Me: I know….

Rebecca

The Tale of Two Frozen Skunk…Fish

Since the beginning of the year I have snuck off to fly fish the honorable ‘in town’ Boise River….twice. The first time was a desperate expedition in bone chilling weather that was inspired by a doom and gloom thought I had circulating in my mind. A fact so consuming it began repeating itself over and over as I tried to fall asleep, as I did the dishes, as I worked, and so on….the annoying thought went basically like this: “I haven’t fished in 2010 yet.” or “I haven’t fished at all this year!” or “It’s Jan 5th and I haven’t fished this whole entire year!”

Clearly, it was a serious issue that needed remedied pronto. So I did what anyone in such a condition would do: I donned my thermals, grabbed my gear, put some some shake and bake hot packets in my pockets and went to the river.

I lasted 1 hour.

I blame Fly Fishing Santa. He didn’t bring me the waders I so kindly requested for Christmas, so I was forced to use ones I had last season. I forgot about the holes until I took two steps into the river. The water quickly and without mercy, poured–not trickled–but flooded into my instantly shocked foot zone. Once I stopped gasping like a northern pike minnow experiencing the horror of a bank rock party, I mentally decided I could suck it up and still fish.

At the point (I’d say around minute 32 during my self imposed test of mind over frozen matter) the pain in my feet became all consuming and each step became a sledgehammer coming down on my toes situation, I started debating mentally whether I really needed toes or not, all thoughts of fish forgotten now. It was all about toes, toes, toes…I finally decided I had shed the shame of not fishing this year and my toes were indeed worth a trip to the E.R. for rescue. Regardless….mission accomplished! I had fished!

As I lay down to sleep that night with my feet wrapped in two electric heating pads, a new thought struck me. “It’s 2010 and I haven’t caught a fish yet this year!” or “I’ve been skunked fishing this whole year” or even better, “You kept all your toes, ya wimp, but now you are a skunked fisherman.” That my friends is the agony of an overactive thought process.

A new desperate situation materialized. I called my dad, explained my despair and planned a new brilliant tactic. Fish with non-leaking waders.

Unless I can count (which I know I can’t) one hook up that bend thy rod, gave me a 30 second thrill and enough time for my dad to pull out the camera and capture the moment…then I lost said thrill via a deveastating snap of line. We were skunked. We both froze. Two for the price of one sort of misery deal. (Thanks for joining me Dad!)

This morning as I look longingly out my window at the snow falling, I wonder if I should call it a season. Give it up, embrace my cabin fever and wait until it’s decent enough outside that hypothermia isn’t part of the menu. Does that make me a fly fishing wimp or am I getting old enough to wise up to potential limitations winter brings?

Of course, I know myself, if someone told me that the X spot is full of hungry trout and the fishing is fabulous, I’d experience an instant fever that no wind factor could freeze and I’d be off parting the water, kissing it with my flies and blissfully oblivious to all forms of frozen pain.

Rebecca aka “she who is skunked, she who has not caught a fish this whole, entire, long, long, year”

Ohhh ~ And All Hail Ye Ice Fisherman, I bow to your polar suits and tenacity!

Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Fly Shops…..

I can be……..

There is a level of trepidation that surrounds me each time I approach the doors of a Fly Fishing Shop….For awhile I wondered if it was just a ‘me’ thing, an individual nervousness that occurred without provocation or reason, but offhandedly, I’ve asked a few others about this peculiar neurosis and several of them also admitted the same pangs of Fly Shop shyness.

I’ve been in fly shops in many different states…a good cross section if I may. I feel like I’ve experienced the majority of levels an angler can feel of welcome, greetings and singe the hair off the back of your neck fun. Some fly shops I’ve left with a smile on my face, some fly shops I’ve left with a shrug of my shoulders, and some fly shops I’ve left running to the nearest bar for a few shots to calm thy nerves.  

When I approach a fly shop I’m typically from the invader, out of towner position. I’ve adopted a protective routine, one that gets me through the first few minutes while I taste the temperature of the air. I like to pull my fishing hat down low over my brow in an effort to appear inconspicuous and I’ll slip through the door with my arms extended out in front of me, palms up in a submissive pose. Basically the, I come in peace and just want to buy flies, posture. (ok, maybe I’m not that extreme, but close enough)

At this point, with years of fly fishing and holding my breath when I go into fly shops under my belt, I would have thought I’d be beyond the nerves. Maybe someday it will go away, but to this day I still hold back certain questions I may have just in case the fly shop has a 10 lashes with an 8 weight fly line policy for any inquires that may be deemed unacceptable.

Now, I can only imagine what it’s like for the people who run fly shops. The clientele that walks through the doors must be as varied as the fish in the ocean. In fact, they could probably name 50 different fly shop visitors by levels of fish. The smart dolphins, the cheeky blow fish, the arrogant sharks, the yap guppies, comical clown fish, serious trout, the silent eels and so on. So I’m sure they have seen it all, heard it all, dealt with it all and some of them may have built up the outer shell of say, a crustacean over time…..

I guess like all things in life, Fly Shops come in all shapes and sizes. I just wish there was a sign on the door that indicated the levels of expectation once I enter the premises. For example: 
1) All welcome, no intimidation or interogation tactics will be applied.
2) All welcome, only minor use of hot searing pokers will be utilized to the highly irritating.  
3) Equipment and creditials will be checked at the processing area. Liberal use of waterboarding and fly line lashings will be employed if you are found unworthy.

I hope someday I’ll move beyond my Fly Shop shyness because I do love them. If I’m not standing in water, a Fly Shop can be a whole ‘nother form of fishing nirvana. Standing amoung the new fly rods and surrounded by thousands of  crisp unused flies is a wonderful place to daydream (until someone jabs you with the end of a size 4 hook) and spend a great deal of money on things that make fishing all the more fun.

Rebecca

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