A quick disclaimer: I am by no means an expert in spin fishing, fly fishing, or any other kind of fishing, for that matter. However, I have been fishing, in one way or another, my entire life. Mostly, I stick to regular freshwater fishing, which is probably what most people are familiar with. When I was younger, you’d find me trekking down to the pond behind my grandparents’ place with my trusty tackle box and rod in hand just as the sun began to paint pinks and oranges across the evening sky. I’d cast my line out beyond the cattails and moss, reeling in with a deliberate slowness until a sharp pull signaled a potential battle. That’s when I’d give the reel a forceful upward tug, initiating a struggle against an unseen force beneath the water’s surface as I cranked the spool of filament back towards me. Even back then, a peculiar fascination gripped me, one that drew my attention to a different realm of angling altogether. It’s an odd universe inhabited by individuals dedicated to the most noble of fishing techniques: the domain of fly fishing and the characters who navigate its waters.

A Thinking Man’s Game

Fly fishing isn’t your run-of-the-mill rod-and-reel affair; it’s a pursuit tailored for those anglers seeking a challenge that transcends the ordinary. It’s a cerebral sport, a thinking man’s game that seems to carry an inherent depth within its very essence. In the realm of fly fishing, you’re required to slow down more than any other fishing endeavor demands. It’s a methodical dance – scouting, casting, and reeling in hefty, weathered fish that seem to carry the weight of ancient wisdom. No quick movements, no sloppy mistakes. Make a wrong move, and watch as an hour or more of painstaking work trickles down the river, disappearing with the elusive fish you’ve been coaxing towards your lure. It’s a delicate balance, demanding a gentle touch and assertiveness using only an extremely lightweight artificial fly tethered to the end of a fragile monofilament line. It’s an art form, an elegant expression that incorrectly makes other fishing techniques appear brutish and indecent. While I hold admiration for all forms of fishing, extending my respect even to the daring art of noodling, there’s an ineffable quality to fly fishing that propels it above its counterparts. When the chance presented itself to immerse myself in this world during a trip to Montana years ago, well, you bet I couldn’t let it slip through my fingers.

Fly Fishing in Big Sky Country

When it comes to Montana, I grapple with the challenge of writing something that hasn’t already been echoed a thousand times. I will say this, though: Montana is everything they state it is—big, wild, open, and untamed. It beckons you to test its limits, inviting you to embrace the full spectrum of experiences it offers. In the rugged beauty lies a toughness that doesn’t shy away from turning you cold, wet, and downright miserable. Yet, paradoxically, it’s this very resilience that makes Montana truly exceptional. Like those who ventured into its vastness before me, I arrived ready to immerse myself in everything I saw. Hiking, exploring the wonders of Yellowstone, tackling whitewater rapids in a raft, and, most significantly, fly fishing in the icy cold streams that snake their way across the state. I had enlisted the company of my brother and father, joined by a seasoned guide set to unravel the mysteries of this alien form of fishing. And so, we slipped into our waders.

Not too far from the backdrop of “A River Runs Through It,” we descended into a stream, eager for our guide to impart the wisdom of the waters on us. My approach, in hindsight, was laced with an overconfidence bordering on hubris. I remember thinking, “Hell, I’ve fished before; what’s the big deal?” Oh, how wrong I was. Sure, I’d tossed a line into lakes and ponds before, but this was an entirely different ballgame. The casting motion, those graceful, sweeping waves of the pole allowing the line to dance through the air like ethereal wisps of smoke, seemed deceptively straightforward. However, years of muscle memory revolted against me. The swift, jerking cast ingrained from lakeside ventures with spin baits proved utterly useless to me then. I shudder to imagine how helpless and confused I really looked. After hours of rewiring my brain into accepting this new way of casting my line, I probably only managed to get out four or five half-decent casts. And of those four or five half-decent casts, I only managed to attract two small-ish-looking trout. Of those two trout, I managed to set the hook on neither. Our guide was quick to point out the error in my ways, emphasizing the need for deliberation and patience when setting the hook. Apparently, my impulsive jerk had robbed the poor fish of a satisfying bite.

“It’s like a firm tug once you got him in.” He said, “It ain’t like fishin’ for bass, you can’t get too excited just cause you can watch ’em swim up to the bait.” 

It was good advice, but I’ll admit I wasn’t that good of a student back then. I stubbornly dismissed the whole concept of fly fishing, silently vowing that it wasn’t for me. For years, it lingered in my memory as something I could boast about doing but swore I wouldn’t attempt again. But of course, as I matured a bit, and reflected on the experience, I had a strong sense of regret that I didn’t take the time to fully engage with what I was doing. I recognized that my misguided focus on showcasing some aptitude for the skill meant I missed the mark entirely. The essence wasn’t about proving prowess; it was about being present. Allowing the rhythmic dance of the rod and line to seamlessly intertwine with the natural world around me. I clung to that regret, yearning for a chance at redemption. Luckily, I didn’t need to wait long before my father and brother extended an invitation to me to join them for another round of fly fishing, though this time, it wouldn’t unfold in the vast landscapes of Montana. No, they had their sights set on a modest stream near Sheboygan, Wisconsin—an unexpected locale for fly fishing in my mind. I had always associated it with the grandeur of Western States, where the outdoors felt boundless, and the wildlife exuded a wild spirit. To my surprise, Wisconsin boasts over 10,000 miles of rivers, creeks, and streams renowned for their cold, crystalline waters, teeming with game fish like trout—the very species we sought in the streams of Montana.

It’s Not About Prowess, It’s About Being Present

When the moment arrived, our group included eight or ten companions, accompanied by a couple of guides. Once again, we suited up in our waders, marching towards the stream that would be our stage for the day. The resemblance between this Wisconsin stream and its Montana counterpart was uncanny. Both were sluggish knee-high creeks, carving their way down into the surrounding fields with steep banks resembling formidable fortifications. The creek bed, strewn with smooth, rounded stones, made navigating my footing a precarious endeavor. After a refresher on the intricacies of fly fishing, our guides strategically dispersed us to avoid the inevitable tangles of lines, and each of us settled into our chosen spots. My gaze fixated on a patch of swirling water about fifteen yards in front of me as I prepared to strip off some line, gearing up for the casting motion. Armed with a newfound appreciation for the essence of this sport, I drew the pole back over my shoulder, waiting for the precise moment to initiate the fluid stroke in the opposite direction.

Once I found my rhythm, I cast my fly out and laid it down upstream of where one of the guides had deemed a prime location for trout. As the little red bead on my line floated past me, a trout’s dorsal fin surged forward from a frothy patch of swirling water, and I felt the strike. He had gone for the bait. In my mind, I heard the advice from the last guide years before, “Don’t get too excited.” Resisting the urge to yank upward like I would have with any other fish I’ve ever caught, I instead opted for a firm, deliberate tug to ensure the hook was set. What followed was a battle of wills, a dance with the fish that seemed to stretch for hours. I’d pull him away from his snug hideaway, and he’d play along until realizing his predicament, darting back to square one. This back-and-forth continued until I made a crucial error, succumbing to impatience. In a swift blitz, the line snapped, and the elusive trout slipped away. In Montana, losing such a prized catch might have stung, but standing in that Wisconsin river, contentment enveloped me. I relished the outdoors, admired the struggle with the fish despite it getting the better of me, and cherished the opportunity to be a part of what felt like a sacred ritual. I didn’t care that that fish got away; I was just happy to be present.