Dry only fly fishing is a dyeing religion. There are some of us youngsters, versed in its ways, but the faith is not as strong as it once was. My granfather was one of the great priests of this failing faith. I remember, as a child, not more than 5, fishing on Mission lake, in Montana. The air was brisk, and for me, the young acolite, barely congnicent of the teaching I was recieving, was more interested in chacing young ducks through the reeds, than fishing.
My grandfather, on the other hand, cared for nothing but the dance. He was a magician with the rod. He would take his magic wand in hand, and make it dance to each command. A fish would rise, and with barely any effort, as if by will alone, his fly would float, low across the water, and land near the center of the bullseye left by the expanding riffles. The fish would rise again, his rod would ark, and the ballet would begin.
After a while, chacing birds through the bursh didn't hold my attention any more. I was captivated by the scene before me. He began to teach me. I was not big enough at the time, to cast for myslef, but I could learn where to place the fly, and how to retrieve it. I cought the first fish I can remember, on that lake, dragging back a fly that had been cast for me. A 10# 11 3/4 oz rainbow. It took me nearly twenty minutes to land the fish, and once I did, I was as exhausted as he, but from then on, I was as hooked as that fish.
My learning, under his tutalage, began then. He tried to teach me what he knew, from tieing flies to catching fish. He tied nymphs for me, and he usually carried one or two; a hare's ear here, or bever caddis there, but I can't recall seeing him tie one on. It was if he needed the temptation to resist, to prove his commitment. I do remember once or twice, seeing him fish nymphs. He would greese them up with a foul smelling paste he carried, and fish them dry. (I've never seen a hairs ear produce, like it can top water.) I learned what I could, but never became a fly fisherman. I liked to tie flys, but didn't have the patience for fly fishing. We fished often, but I don't recall anyone ever catching more fish than he did on any of our trips. It was amazing what nearly a century of experience had tought the man.
At 10, my family left our home in Northern Montana, but he, at 93, was to old, and too stubborn to follow. He still practiced his religion. The Flathead, the Milk, the Blackfoot, and Marias were his church. Over the next fouryears, Now and then, we would visit, and he would teach me as best he could. It wasn't until then, that I was willing to learn, and I studied eagerly under his care. I hooked myself more often than I hooked a fish, but I tried, and he was patient with his student. I would hear from time to time, of how his trips to reiceve his sacriments went, and hear the family complain about his disappearing into the hills. They worried he would hurt himslef, but I knew it was the practice of this faith that sustained him.
At 96, his eyes, and his helth were failing. He didn't stop at a stop sign, and had a minor accident. It was this accident, I am convinced, that killed him, not the kidney falior that ultimately took him just short of the beginning 99th year. They took his license, and thus cut him from his communion. Excommunicated, by an act of law, his mind went quicly, but the body lingered.
I remember visiting him once, shortly before the end. They had put a large plastic pool on the grounds, and stocked it with fish from a hatchery. They tied flies to ice fishing polls, and let the geezers loose. For a while, he was himself again. He cought a fish or two on a deer hair hopper. He talked for a while, and then went back to his room. I know it wasn't the same, but I think it was what he needed. A last rights of sorts, for a man of his faith.
I don't keep the traditions, as he did. I often sin, and toss a nymph to a riffle behind a rock, when there is no hatch to match. I don't have the patience I should, and I still lack about 55 years of learning, to be the sage he was, but I make an effort. Perhpas some say, I will re-discover the old religion, and I can teach my own children or grandchildren the way, as I take my communion, on the Blackfoot, or the Flathead, or the Marias. I can always hope.