How It All Started...

“Dad, my leg’s broke.” Those were the first words out of my mouth after being body slammed off the back of a green broke colt I’d been gathering cattle on that day. It wasn’t the first time I’d been dumped but it was the worst and, as it turned out, it would be the last. The good news was, my leg was not broken. The bad news was that I had herniated a disc in my lower back and it pinched a nerve so bad that I couldn’t move my leg for a while. That was close to 20 years ago.

Fast forward 10 years and, uh several pounds. I had officially joined the ranks of the Fat Kids. My back had gotten so bad that if an activity involved just about anything other than sitting or lying flat on my back I was unable to do it. I finally had enough and went under the knife. While I was recovering from that, my doc told me that I needed to do 3 things to help me heal up. They were: walk, walk, and walk.

Like I said, I had already joined the ranks of the Fat Kids and walking with no objective other than to get from Point A to Point B is strictly prohibited in our bylaws. A very good and true friend of mine, Trey Morgan, suggested that I take up the sport of fly fishing as a way to give me an objective for my walks. I resisted at first but the walking just for the sake of walking was threatening my “Member in Good Standing” status with the Fat Kids. I finally gave in though and, as they say, the rest is history. Here is a little narrative I wrote quite a few years ago of my first fly fishing trip. I hope you enjoy…

After years of watching fly fishermen on TV and wondering if it would be worth my time, I broke down a few weeks ago and bought a fly rod set up. Since I live in Popcornfarte, TX casting instructors are like hens teeth, non-existent. So, I did what any self respecting goofball would do. I spent the next few days out in the yard waving a stick in the air trying to teach myself how to cast. Finally, the day came when I’d taught myself all I knew (nothing). It was time. I was ready to try for the mighty blue gill in the local park lake.

Armed with a poorly tied black fly of mass production & questionable lineage, I made my way to the water's edge and went for it. With the wind quartering from behind me I began my presentation of the not so tasty looking feathered lure. Again and again I deftly placed the little thing beyond a downed tree limb and stripped it back along side.

Suddenly, without warning, the lure disappeared from the surface in the midst of a swirl that had to be at least the size of a Suzan B. Anthony dollar. I held the fly line with my index and middle finger against the rod and raised the rod tip. The fight was on! Stumbling and thrashing around on the bank I pulled in the line with my left hand looking, in my mind's eye, as if I needed to be on an episode of Walker's Cay Chronicles.
After, what seemed to be at least three, maybe even four seconds, I had the beast landed. It was the fattest, palm sized blue gill I had ever seen.

It didn't last very long and there wasn't much to it, but it made a fly fisherman for life out of me. Undaunted by the size of my first fish on the fly, I vowed to return. Thus ended my first fly fishing trip; it was one to remember.


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