Fishing Journal: 4/24/06

        I was supposed to take Taylor, my eight-year old daughter, camping this weekend, a little alone time with Daddy.  We planned to hike into the Rapidan watershed and camp near the stream on her first backcountry trip.  She hadn’t fly fished yet, although she told me she knew how except for the casting part, and this would be the trip where I could spend some one-on-one time with her and some forgiving brookies.  Well three inches of rain on Friday night and all day Saturday squashed that idea. 

        Instead we took ourselves to the bookstore where I finally found another Delorme map of Maryland and she found a scrap-booking project.  If the weather broke we were set to head out, but the rain kept coming and it looked like scrounging through old pictures was in my future, which ended up being a lot of fun much of it poked at dad. 

        The forecast called for some break in the rain on Sunday, so we got ourselves out of the house by 10 and were on our way of curing some of my shack-nasties.  On the drive up to the Gunpowder I told Taylor about seeing a wild turkey crossing the road.

        “Now Dad, tell me if you see an animal.   You know, not a squirrel or anything we always see, but if you see a fox or something, let me know.”

        She stared out the window for a while before asking, “Dad, what kind of animal would you be.”
        I thought for a moment before replying, “I think I would be a hawk.”
        “A hawk, you’re not allowed to kill hawks are you?”
        “Not anymore.”
        Then one appeared floating on the thermals rising from the road.
        “Oh my gosh, he’s huge.”
        Timing, as they say, is everything.

        We put on our waders to which Taylor announced that my green ones were nicer than the brown, neoprene ones I had brought her last week.  I ended up getting her hiking shoe because the store, I leave the name out, didn’t have wading shoes for kids although they sold youth waders.  Sometimes life just doesn’t make sense unless of course one sees it as a lesson on how not to run a fishing shop.  It’s all perspective.

        Hiking down to the stream the clouds began to form again and I was afraid we were due for some more rain.  The walk down to the upper section of the Gunpowder is a steep, traversing, rocky trail crossing fallen trees and switching back every two hundred yards. 

        “Just remember, we have to hike back up this on the way out.”
        “No problem.”
        The river was running high but still clear.  We rigged up her rod, an old 6/7 weight that I started out with many years ago.  It was the same rod I was using my first time out trying to figure out how to attach a fly to the line and wondering what stupid fish is going to eat this attached to this thick line.  I can say with still some modesty, I have come a long way.

        I explained the principals of casting, the flex of the rod, stored energy, transference-the works.
        “Dad,” she said exasperatedly, “let me cast.”
        Obviously way too much for an eight-year old.
        It started to rain.
        “Hey it’s raining, do you want to go.”
        “I’ve got an idea,” she said. “Let’s pretend it’s not raining and fish anyway.” 
        Now where are you going to find a girl like that?
        Into the water we waded; Taylor holding the rod and me holding Taylor by the suspenders.  I had attached a fly she had tied, a wooly worm, ribbed with silver tinsel, not her first fly but close to it.

        “Do you think we’ll catch a fish?"
        I was more worried the high water would take her down the river and was pretty sure that catching a fish was not in our cards. 

        “Now remember, we’re here mainly to practice casting, not catch a fish.”
        Can you see it coming?
        On the fourth cast, the line began to vibrate with that sensation that makes the hair stand on an angler’s arm.
        “You got a fish.”
        “Dad, what do I do?”
        Now brilliant dad, fishing guide dad, never explained what to do if a fish actually took the fly.  After some scrambling and a near dunking for both of us we got to the shallows and put the fish on the reel.  Just then he came off.

        “Was he big.”
        “Big enough.”
        “Oh, I wanted to see him.” 
        You and me both.
        “Well dad, I caught a fish, now it’s your turn.”
        Once again, where are you going to find a girl like that?
        I tied on a Mickey Finn, which just cracked Taylor up with the name and hooked a ten-inch brown on the second swing.

        “He’s so pretty.  Can I hold him?”
       
        Taylor went back in the water this time a little farther out because she was actually casting about 20 feet and needed some room behind her.  The fly was swinging a little too fast for my liking.

        “Hey, I want you to put an upstream mend in the line.”
        “What’s that?”
        “It’s when you throw some line up the river to slow the fly down.  And listen, if you feel the bump again, lift the rod.”

        She smiled, cast the fly to the center of the river, and actually put a mend in the line.
        Where are you going to find a girl like that?