Do you remember your first time?

I have been out fly fishing several times now, and was always asked the same question when I returned. "Catch anything?" My answer was always no. That all changed on Tuesday. On Eric's recommendation I headed to the Teanaway River just outside of Cle Elum. He told me I should fish the middle fork.

After driving around for about an hour down various pothole filled dirt roads, I finally decided to just park the car and start fishing. I pulled off on the first decent spot I could find, and began wading upstream. The water was never very deep, waist high at the most, but the flow was pretty solid. Often times if it got higher than my knees I found myself on uneven footing and worried that I would be swept downstream a bit. The danger wasn't anything more than a few bumps and bruises, being wet, and hurting my pride, but I still didn't want to face it.

When the river became too much I would wade to the shore and walk on land. As I went, I casted into the spots that seemed probable for trout, trying not to snag my fly on branches or the occasional canyon walls the river formed.

After about an hour and a half of wading upstream, casting with no results, I decided to get out of the river and see if I could find a better spot to fish. After only a few minutes of walking, I came upon a bridge over the water with the sign stating "M ork Teanaway" The "F" in fork was missing due to shotgun shot scouring the sign clean of any dirty letters.

I saw a small path leading to the water, and decided to follow it. I went down and what did I find? THE PERFECT SPOT! There was a strong flow falling over large rounded rocks creating a lot of bubbles. To the left of the bubbles was a deep pool of slower moving water which was leisurely lapping against the undercut cliff. The highly oxygenated water should prove a great spot for fish to breathe easy. The slow moving pool should be a great spot for flies caught in the water to become lunch for a hungry trout.

I slowly and quietly as possible headed up the stream, trying to get to a spot where I could cast above the pool and allow my fly to float over this honey hole. I cast a few times, watching the white feathering float downward leisurely toward me. I stood about fifteen minutes, casting repeatedly, until, finally, a hit!

I was so excited I jerked far too hard, and watched as a brown back rippled the surface and my fly flew past me head. I quickly cast back to the same spot, and again missed the catch. I pulled my fly out of the water again, false casted a few times, and landed it perfectly. As I watched the white feathers float over the pool I told myself not to be too excited. As the fly approached me I pulled the line in, and watched as the brown back broke the surface and my fly disappeared. I resisted the urge to jerk the pole, and waited half a second longer. I smoothly struck, setting the hook. I felt the trout through the sensitive rod, each jerk and tug being transmitted to my hands. I pulled the line in by hand carefully, being sure to let the rod take the pressure so as not to stress the line too much.

I could feel the strong trout running through the water, the line pulling away from me. I carefully pulled the line closer and closer until I could get the trout into the relatively calm water by my legs. He was beautiful, with a proud red stripe running through the black mottled skin. The back was a dark brown leading toward an olive green on the sides. It wasn't the first trout I have landed, but it was the first on fly gear. What an experience it was!

I had to pay much more attention fly fishing. Positioning my fly, controlling the line, and bringing in the slack as I landed the fish were all part of a fulfilling experience. It was completed by the pristine surroundings. The cold clear water, lush foliage, and sounds of nature were not interrupted by car horns, shouts, or sirens. I can't climb now, but I am more than happy to still be outdoors.

Now that I am slowing down, I am seeing more than ever.

A river runs throught it.......and that water is COLD!

Now that I am unable to climb I have found a new diversion. Fly fishing. I took a course while attending SUNY Plattsburgh, and really just learned how to tie flies and got some casting practice in a field.

I need more practice.

I took Eric's advice and went to the middle fork of the Snoqualmie River. First I had to wander and figure out where exactly I should go to fish. After tromping through thick brush I finally made it to the river....and realized it was deep all around me. Far too deep and strong for me to wade into, even if I had waders. After a retreat and a walk down the dirt road, I found a more accessible location.

I wandered down and set up my rod, and tried to cast. Now, I wasn't bad when I practiced over a year ago, but I wasn't all that good either. I figured out a major difference on the river. There are trees here! It only took three casts before I had my fly wrapped around a branch, followed by another branch, and a rock. Yes, a rock. I even got my fly wrapped around the line somehow, becoming a tangled mess.

After an hour of tangles and snags, I finally started to develop a rhythm. I spent the next three hours up to my ankles in some extremely cold water, simply flicking the line back and forth.

Playing the fly across the slower moving portions of the water was enjoyable. I simply tried to imitate the motion of the little water scooters I have seen so many times throughout my life.

I spent a total of four hours on the water, trying to improve my skills. I lost two flies, and caught one stick. I saw one tiny tiny tiny fish try to attack my first fly. It was too small to even really get on the hook.

Despite not having many fish show up, it was a successful day. The rhythm of the line when it was flying through the air brought me to a peaceful place. I was alone on the water, enjoying the sound of the running river, focusing entirely on the movement of my arm, the rod, the line, and the minuscule fly thirty-five feet away from me.