Old Guys - 1 more time

It was a scorcher (mid 90s+) but the water was in the mid 60's, so it should have been good for trout, but fish are funny that way and i guess either the light was too bright, or the water was too wet or something else was just off. In those days i would spend 12 - 16 + hours a stream,  wading every foot of the river, kicking rocks and falling in holes. On prior occasions this particular 100 yard riffle had been very productive water, so based on the past I flailed away wiping the water senseless and dragging my dehydrated, sweating self up and down this stretch going fishless for the fist 3-4 hours.

After a while i noticed a blue pickup truck driving back and forth a 1/2 dozen times over the next 3 to 4 hours. Inside was Old Guy, watching me fish but something seemed "off". Given my catch rate I was really just wading with a fancy stick. Old Guy had been driving along the dirt road kicking up enough dust to remind me of those old B&W westerns, he stopped at one point and yelled "Hey whatcha you doing?" This was a troubling question, as it was clear I was standing in water up to my chest, waving what PJ O'rourke had previously noted is a really expensive clothesline back and forth. Clearly i was either a fool or a really bad fisherman (or more likely both). Generally when i am in a remote place and a lone guy stalks me, the NY’er in me kicks in, I hear the “Deliverance” banjo playing in the background, thinking this is why Woody Allen stays in the city.  But i like to be polite and answered him that i was fishing. He just shook his head looked at me in a most pitiful way, like i was planting corn in dry cement.

It was about 6:15 pm before Old Guy stopped his truck and sat on the step bar. It would be another 1/2 hour before he took out his waders and an hour more before he dropped into the water. I feel I should point out he was not that old (late 60's) he was simply taking his time. Just before 7:30 he finished straitening his leader and tied on a fly. He looks over to the pitiful city boy and yelled to (at?) me for the second time this day “Adams #14”. Right then i knew he was clearly a "master", sharing a powerful secret. As fast as i could i clipped my 10th + fly of the day and tied on an Adams #14 (though i had never fished one before).

Now for those of you not in the club the Adams is one of the oldest dry flies out there and yeah i know this is the most popular fly sold in America, blah, blah, blah, but there is a reason for this. The thing just looks buggy and everyone really should have a few in various sizes.

It was a real joy to watch him fish, his line was balanced for the tippet and fly; it was sheer poetry as I watched him lay out 50' + balanced, graceful casts. This Old Guy however was not a caster or a poet or even showing off; he was the 1% who catches 90% of fish. In the time it took me to real in, clip off and tie the fly on, he had landed about 5 or 6 fish in the same water i had been fishing all day with out a hit (mostly with out even a bump). My first cast was about as bad a cast as you could hope for in the presence of such a master and as the line piled, bunched and sagged, i prepared to rip it off the water but it was stuck. In the high country there are fallen trees and rocks and other snags but in this gin clear water where I knew there were no hang ups within a 100 yards (i had just spent the day kicking and wading the entire riffle). So this was, it was, was it a fish!?!?. Good news, i reeled him in and just smiled, Old Guy smiled back.

I usually don't keep count or at least I stop counting fish after about 6 (it is not really about the fish) but in this case as he fished me 2 to 1 and as the body count rose i keep track. With a new fish at least every 2nd or 3rd cast the count rose quickly. Up to this point i had only read about “boiling rivers overflowing with fish” and assume they were fiction. I know the math guys will say it is just not possible, but we quickly passed 30 & 50 respectively. When i hit 30 I broke out laughing (i had never been north of 15 or even really close to it), and Old Guy looked at me and asked for the 2nd time that day "What are you doing?" Again, he was asking “Why?” But this time it was why are you wasting your time laughing, when now is the time to fish. Shortly after dark we waded out (the fishing had not let up but we were tired and it was a tough wade back to the bank).

My goal in life up until then was to hit the trifecta (a brookie, a brown and a rainbow in a single day). Well this was a special river and although most of the fish were stockers I managed 3 brookies, 19 bows, 20 + + browns and a landlocked salmon. This was a turning point for me, i had learned more in a few hours than in the last few years.

Back at the trucks we just kind of looked at each other and smiled. Old Guys are just "other guys" who got old along the way. They were once, are still and will be again our friends, our mentors, our brothers and even one day ourselves.

Go wet a line...