First Fish

Catching a fish (and a relatively nice fish) on the first trip of the season, especially on a new stretch of water, comes as a surprise. The second fish (another nice one), a few minutes later, is another surprise. The third is almost becoming a habit. Later, further downstream on more familiar water, water that is more flaccid, not cut by spring flooding, less promising than last year, I find a small run up against a bank, flick my fly in the riffle at the head of the run, and a second later I have a 14” brown on (large for this stream), both of us unsure (I imagine it’s the first time this year this fish has been caught), it runs downstream, then across, I force it on its side and slide it into my net, but it flips out and makes another run down and across, but I get it on its side again and into the net, release the fly, a strong and beautiful fish. The first trip of the year is always the best. The streams are easily accessible, last year’s weeds and grasses matted down. There hasn’t been any pressure. The fish are gullible. A month from now I won’t be the only fisher on the stream, the vegetation will be a head-high wall blocking access to the stream, and the fish – those not already caught and taken – will be wary. This first trip sets up a promise that can’t help but be spoiled as the season goes on. But after years and years I’ve learned to take what I can get when I can get it. And keep trying to overcome the failure I know is certain to come. Maybe it’s fishing that’s made me the cynic I am.