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The Emerger

By Jim Gavacs (NCFF)

(This is a brief reminiscent essay on my introduction to fly-fishing. It appeared in a collection of essays called “The Fly-Fishingest Gentlemen.”)

It was our third trip to the Beaverkill. My Dad and I spent our Memorial Day weekends camping and fishing along the river. We arrived late Friday night and pitched camp in a sand and gravel pit just below the Junction Pool. Somehow it was different that year. The rushing roar of the river was a mere gurgle. The smells of a summer evening were intense. Three itching welts on my neck made me acutely aware that I’d forgotten the insect repellant. It was late, so gurgle, smell and itching notwithstanding, I went to sleep immediately thinking of the fishing in the morning.

Saturday morning was crystal clear and warm with just a light mist over the river. It seemed such a waste of time to build afire and make breakfast. All I had on my mind was that telltale tugging on the line that meant a trout was at the other end.

Formalities out of the way, we were finally ready to catch fish! I left my Dad in the dust on the way to the riffles above the Junction Pool. The water was clear as liquid glass and the fish seemed suspended in air. The only problem was that our squirming worms just kept floating by the fish without hint of interest.

This mockery of our offerings had to stop! After two hours of my best presentations I gave up to watch from the bank. As I sat there I became interested in several fisherman at the other end of the pool, they were fly-casting and catching fish! This held my attention very well. I also soon became aware of the fish in front of me eating flies on the surface.

Being a fan of Field & Stream, thoughts of Al Maclane's articles danced through my head. I recalled the account of Al fishing a particularly tough situation. Al was on a rock-strewn stretch of an unnamed Catskill stream with three 16-inch browns lying behind two boulders. Being Al Maclane, he could be gutsy, so he made a pact with himself. If he didn’t catch all three, he would release the ones he did catch. Somehow, with exact casting, line mending and drag free floats, Al overcame the situation and creeled all three. What a fisherman! But here I was 14, fishless and looking at what appeared to be a long, tedious and fishless weekend.

Fly-fishing was something I had only read and dreamt about. I had a fly-casting outfit. I also tied flies as a hobby. In my collection were lemon yellow mayflies, bright blue caddis and even some candy apple red nymphs. But I had never fished a fly. Noontime came and it seemed a relief to leave the river.

Over lunch I noticed the fly fishermen from the pool were also camping in the lot. I went over to meet and talk with them. During the conversation one of the men asked to see my collection. He said they were tied well but probably no the appropriate colors. He spent some time with me, helping me tie several patterns (in the appropriate colors) and giving me practical advice and encouragement. The encouragement was what I needed. Tying flies and believing you could actually catch fish on them were two different things. That afternoon my enthrallment with fly-fishing began.

With my new found enthusiasm I set out. I returned to “my” spot above the pool only to find it with many more people than when I had left. I thought for a minute of just stepping right in and fishing, but thought the better of it. After seeing my casting ability, they might think I was actually fishing for flies!

It was a short hike up the river to a spot devoid of others. There was a long flat stretch with large rocks poking their tops through the surface. The sun and trees made a patchwork of shadows shimmering and ever-changing on the water. The leaves were that light spring green that gives an intensity of freshness and being. Looking back on that scene I don’t see how I could have not realized that something rare and transforming was happening. Even though it took place over a quarter century ago, my eyes still squint from the sunlight and I get that smell of summer whenever I think about it.

What amazed me most about this scene were the fish. It seemed here were trout rising everywhere to feed on surface insects. Remembering my mentor’s advice, I thrashed about in the water trying to catch an insect so I could match the hatch. Today, I would think it’s a mayfly, light brown in color, probably best imitated with a #16 Light Cahill. That day it was a small tan bug! I searched my collection of flies. The closest I could come was a gray-bodied fly with a dun hackle that wasn’t very close. The morning’s doldrums began to settle back into my thoughts and the sun was not as intense, the river and trees not as vivid.

Halfheartedly I began flailing my fly on the water. Then it happened. A trout rose to my fly out of the depths only to turn off at the last second as the drag of the line pulled the fly away from its mouth. Suddenly the sun was bright again and the colors vivid. I cast again, and again, and then, wonders. A fish once more rose to my offering, but this time my float was true and dragless. The fish took, I set the hook and off he went upstream and so did I. Four runs upstream, three runs down, four slips and three dunkings later, I brought him to the net. It was a brown with brilliant red and blue spots and bright red gills. I carried the fish at least 30 feet from the edge of the river before removing it from the net because I didn’t want it jumping back into the water.

At the end of the day I had two creel-mates for my brown, and a new way of fishing for me.

I still look forward to that stream that leads away from the road. It changes constantly from visit to visit and hour to hour. It fills me with smells and sound and visions. Visions of trout rising under a branch, from behind a rock, or scooting away when they sense my presence. Visions of a brown trout jumping in a net with such red gills and vivid red and blue spots, the like of which I have never seen again. Visions of a 14 year-old’s emergence many years ago and visions of my son, whose emergence is yet to come……..

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