By Alexander de Wolff
By the time I pushed the partially deflated rubber kayak into the lake, it had been sitting at the back of my shed for about two years. It was just long enough that I’d forgotten what a pain in the ass fly fishing from an inflatable kayak is, but recent enough that when summer came I thought it’d be a good idea to take it out for a spin.
The two side chambers seemed to hold air, but when I finished installing the seat the bottom section was already mushy. I’m pretty sure the manual said you could float with just one chamber inflated, meaning the inflatable bottom was more of a suggestion. My friend borrowed a miniature sit-in kayak even more unsuitable than mine. Hell, at least mine had rod holders.
What brought us to this crowded state park, portaging partially inflated vessels through family picnics? The promise of big bass. The week before, I stopped into the fly shop down the road to replenish tackle which now hung like strands of tinsel from the branches along local rivers. During the customary bullshiting at the shop, one of the employees showed me pictures of bass he’d caught in the nearby lake. They were massive. I’d wanted an excuse to buy a new rod and there it was.
My new six weight would do nicely as I dipped my toes into the world of bass while still being light enough to act as a heavy trout rod if this didn’t pan out. After stuffing an Altoids tin with freshly tied streamers—not counting the dozen or so failed initial attempts—I called up my fishing buddy and won him over with tales of bass which would make flounder and salmon a thing of the past.
It didn’t take much getting blown around by the wind, fighting fly line tangled between legs, and paranoia about launching a size two hook into my remaining air chambers far from shore for us to remember fishing a large lake in small kayaks kind of sucks. Especially when you’re not getting any bites.
I estimated the three-mile paddle out to the spot the employee told me about would take about an hour. With the progress we were making into the wind, four hours seemed more realistic. The bottom of my kayak sagging down probably didn’t help. After bobbing around for a few hours we cut our losses and headed back to shore.
Since I had this new rod, I might as well use it. I’d never fished streamers much, but a fisherman always seizes an opportunity to waste more time and money on the pursuit. So, I bought a copy of the streamer Bible, Modern Streamers for Trophy Trout, and studied it front to back. With a tin of Zoo Cougars and crayfish patterns I went to the river. I practiced moving the fly with the rod tip and taking up the excess line. I got a few taps on the Cougar but no prom queen.
It didn’t take long after switching to the crayfish before the line got ripped out of my hand and zipped through the guides as I stared dumbfounded down at the reel. I splurged on it for its fish stopping drag, and it was singing away as the fish went downstream. I finally put on some side pressure, then started running down the bank while reeling as fast as I could. By the time I got to where I last saw the fish roiling on the surface, the line had gone slack and I retrieved my chewed up fly. I’d gotten my ass handed to me by a trout.
Despite all the large trout, bass, pike, and salmon that have come since and will follow, none of them will match the fish that taught me fly fishing isn’t just for eight-inch trout, and the mythical role it’s taken on in my mind. The one that got away has always been a tired cliché, but without it the fish we catch would become adequate. Where’s the fun in that?
