When I first began the conversion to fishing with the fly, like most folks, I had very little idea what I was doing. I did not catch many fish, and when I did catch them, I had no idea why it had happened. I was truly like the blind squirrel who finds an acorn, lucky. With a capital "L". Like a lot of beginners, I gravitated towards the bewildering array of self-help books available to the fly fisher. One of the recurring themes in these books was the emphasis on the "presentation" of the fly.
After studying a half dozen of these books, I began to understand what I had been doing wrong. I had been merely tossing the fly in the water and hoping to find a fish stupid enough to inhale it. I did not realize that I was supposed to silently crawl under the brushline like Daniel Boone's sidekick, Mingo. If only I could learn to creep along like this, and somehow launch a flawless upstream cast, mending the line without a hint of drag. Then, I could fish with the big dogs!
I went to work on it. I studied drag, microdrag and all the drags in between. I tried to put the theory into practice while on the water. I'm not sure I caught many more fish, but I did wear out the knees of my neoprenes and any semblence of dignity.
One of my first and harshest lessons on the importance of a dragged flyline and fly came on a large Western Oregon river. I was fishing with a friend of mine who has frequently served as ballast on the front end of my drift boat. Although he knows no more than I about trout fishing, one day he schooled me badly. I was in the stern of the anchored boat, sailing cast after cast of carefully dead drifted Elk Hair caddis down the current seams. This went on for the longest time, while Mr. Fishing Buddy was fumbling around in the bow, as per usual. I managed to keep all fish far, far away from my fly while he screwed around tying on a too big fly to a too big tippet. Then, he had to light his pipe. I think his self help book must have had a picture of the fly fisher on the front, puffing away on his Borkum Riff, manly style.
Anyway, he laid his rod down with about ten or twelve feet of line paid out into the river while he fumbled with his pipe. The gargantuan fly was more or less water skiing, jumping up and down, never touching the water for more than a second at a time. My contempt was quick and harsh, but, uncharateristically for me, I bit my tongue.
You know what came next. "Oh, got one!". His rod was thrashing and bobbing, but he still managed to get that pipe lit. Then he landed a nice cutthroat. I was thinking and mouthing" you lucky s.o.b.!", under my breath. I continued to lay out my best dead drifts to the left and the right of the boat. Nothing. MeanwhileFishing buddy now has his rod tucked under one arm while he is relighting his pipe. He crows out, "Hey, man, I got another one!".
I'm steaming, but can only manage a weak "nice fish" as a comeback. I went back to the dead drift and heaved it longer and deader than I've ever done. I know there's fish out there, but apparently they are just too ignorant to notice the beautiful casts I am making for them, the ingrates. While I'm pulling up anchor to move, Mr. Water Skiing Fly barks out a now boastful " got another one!". To this day, I'm sure he doesn't know how close I came to river violence at that moment in time.
It was soon 7 fish to nothing. Yes, we keep score, and don't tell me you don't do the same. I had to do something, so I gritted my teeth and imitated the bob-bob-bob-along , the full drag in the water , water ski method. Kapow! I'm hooked up! This cannot be, I think. After unhooking and releasing a nice cutt, I think just for comparison, I'll go back to the "right way to fish". Nothing.
The day ended with the two fishermen still friends. We both caught as many fish as we wanted to, just as long as the fly was presented wrong. That was the day I learned about the menace of microdrag.
- Ron Henderson, 2001-