TightLinesBlogzine.com

Spring has come early this year, and so has the urge to get my line back in the water. I’ve been an avid fisherwoman since about age 4, but only started learning to fly fish in September 2009. My line got tight less than a handful of times before the season was over. I couldn’t wait to get back out, but sufficed with tying flies and ice fishing during the short winter. Finally, sometime in March, my fishing buddy and mentor said it was TIME. Time to see if there were any fish active in the local streams. I was pumped, ready to face the cold air and even colder water. There was just one thing holding me back. For weeks I was nursing an arm injury that would prevent me from casting right-handed. Oh well. I was determined to fish. For several weeks we fished the local haunts, to no avail (for me anyway). I watched my friend land a few beauties here and there.

One particular stream we tried to visit on a weekly basis, as it was both close to home and supposedly, a real fishing gem. Week after week we went, fished the same holes, and I repeatedly got skunked. I spent more time with my line wrapped around twigs and my flies lodged under rocks than I cared to. I realized I was still a “beginner,” but I was getting frustrated.

One hole on this stretch of river gave me headaches larger than life, guaranteed, every time I was there. I call it the Hate Pool. My partner kept telling me “there’s fish in there,” and gave advice on how to fish it. It was a deep pool on the outside of a rushing curve, with a lovely submerged tree smack in the middle of it, right where the fish would be hanging out. The hole could be fished from either above or below the wood feature, and I tried both every time. From above I had to make a short swing across river to avoid several other woodpiles, and then let out more line as it swung downstream, and just as the line headed toward the tree in the middle, quickly swim my fly out of danger and hope that something would chase. I got one chase from this method, but otherwise I was just feeding my flies to the log. When fished from downstream, well, lets just say I wasn’t a fan of fishing the Hate Pool from downstream. I had even less luck with fish and more luck with trees and bushes from there. After fishing the area probably a half a dozen times with no luck, I was a little down. I even dreaded seeing the Hate Pool, but knew I had to give it a whirl because I just KNEW there were fish by that tree. It was now almost the end of April, a gorgeous sunny day. Not to warm, not too cold. A little buggy, but nothing too horrible. We had fished the usual holes with not much action, and were now at the Hate Pool. The week before we had managed to clear out some of the over hanging branches that made the downstream spot difficult, but I had a better feeling about starting upstream. The water levels were finally down a bit so it was easier to get a good position in the water.

A few minutes before we got to the Hate Pool I’d tied on a Basil’s Orange Creamcicle, a fly I invented thanks to my long-haired cat, Basil, in hopes that it would help change my luck. It was making its debut in the water that day. So I got in the water, picked my spot, and began casting. First cast I got a follow. Everything seemed to be going smoothly, wasn’t catching the log, getting enough line out. Second or third cast, BANG! Fish on! Right out from under the log came a little wild brookie. He was a wiley one, and made for a short but fun fight. Finally, my streak was over, and the Hate Pool showed me some love.