Philosophy of the Fly: The Gift

From the moment our heart beats, to the second that we depart from this life into the unknown, we are given a gift. It’s hard for man to comprehend how something so complex can be so simple and that our divine origin can seem so meaningless as the grains of sand seem to drop so slowly in front of us as we seek meaning in times of idleness. Some say that this gift is unwanted. They are thrown into the turbulence and never seem to find the calm. Their hearts beat without passion and they become blinded by the false illusions that drape over the stage of a mundane life. Material possessions fill their lives as they can only take part in the present world that surrounds them. They fail to see the beauty in everything that surrounds them, never fully understanding the brilliance of their own existence. The tiniest movement that the human body makes while conscious in the physical world is a divine miracle and one should never waste the opportunity to live in the most peaceful time in the history of mankind.

            By the grace of God, I was given a gift. The gift to see deeper meaning into my sometimes seemingly routine life and see the light that shines within the mysterious pain that shrouds a lifetime of living.  Into the new I emerged, a son that carried on my father’s pride. But nature desires balance and it will stop at nothing till it sits comfortably once it is disturbed. My father gave me the gift of life, but soon after my arrival, nature demanded balance and my father was asked to return to his beginning. A selfless man, my grandfather, moved north and stepped into the role my father left waiting for him. As I began to experience the world, the void that nature caused was perplexing. The most important figure a boy can have is his father, although my Grandfather acted as a surrogate, his wisdom could only reach so far. The insecurities and anxieties of a lonely child living in a busy city seemed to become overbearing at times. Looking for answers, I turned back to nature as an eager child. The root of my pain came back again to heal a wound that nature had inflicted upon me. Traveling into the woods and streams, I began to conquer the cyclical negativity that plagued my young mind. Soon my naïve eyes began to see the perfect imperfections that fill our lives. My grandfather saw my passion emerging while I was young boy and realized the impact that the outdoors was providing me. Unfortunately, he grew up in tough times where money was saved instead of spent adventuring. His knowledge of fishing and hunting was the bare minimum. He devoted his life to giving me the opportunities to live in the wonderful outside world that I yearned for. I would spend hours in the woods and in the water, investigating and studying every creation that crawled passed my feet. I craved to know more about how everything came to be and how it all fit together.

     As time moved foreword, my innocence began to weather and my metal began to rust. I was forced to leave the woods, my home, and embark upon the social construct we know as society. Nature speaks no words, everything that happens has a reason and life is fluid outside of man’s grasp. In society, Man speaks many words that destroy and poison those around them without meaning. The adjustment to the world that I had to integrate with was harsh and brash. Confusion filled my mind and my bond with my grandfather became weaker as I pursued the life of an average teenage boy. Life became less clear and I could not always see the light engulfed within the darkness.

Years passed by without effort and as I lived within the moment. Lessons I had learned in nature had faded and the shine of the material world had tightened down around my mind. Like many fools blinded by the flash of everything new, I forgot that life must always come to an end. My grandfather became sick in his old age. Time slipped by just as quickly as his fingers fell from mine as he breathed his final breath. The image of a man so full of life and happiness, shaking in fear of the unknown, as I, still not yet a man, held his hand. This event  has been burned into my mind for good reason. As he drifted off into his deepest slumber, the stillness of the moment awoke a sleeping presence that had lay dormant deep in the depths of my mind. A voice cried out in the wilderness and I was finally ready to answer it's haunting call.

            In my grandfather’s last few months, his memory began to deteriorate and emotions were stripped from him as the chemicals broke down his body. Conversations were hard to come by and his physical pain became emotional pain that hardened my heart. Yet in his pain, the one memory that reinvigorated him, was the when he took me to meet a fly fishing instructor one fall day when I was a small boy. Fly-fishing to a ten year old, seemed complex and frustrating. The passion for this art never blossomed for me like he had hoped. In those painful days, my grandfather recollected that memory and urged me to try my hand at this mysterious sport. He saw something deeper that I could not yet see.

            Days after his passing, the words he spoke urging me to find a passion in fly fishing danced in my mind. Everything was cold the day I went into the store to buy my first fly rod. The air, the ground, and my heart felt the painful touch of the bitterness that accompanies a dreary January day. Little did I know, I would walk out of that department store with not only a fly fishing rod, but also a new perspective on life that would bring warmth to my coldest January days, quite simply, a gift.

That first cast into the water overtook me. My inner being submerged like the fly I had cast and it was stripped out of the ice-cold water and born once again. My soul would slowly begin to heal and return to its innocence and appreciation of being, even though I was not aware at the time of my awakening. The part of me that was lost the day I said “goodbye” to my Grandfather began to fill quickly with a new love but like every new undertaking, frustration is the demise of any aspiration a man has when confidence is absent. I’d spend my first year, casting. Trying to develop and understand abstract concepts, which lay the fundamentals of the fly. Fishless days would hinder my progress, but the life that surrounded me while on the water, slowly repaired the broken pieces of my being. I would flip rocks in streams with youthful enthusiasm to learn of the secret life that lay hidden beneath the surging surface. All of the creatures around me painted my imagination and I slowly learned more about the hidden lessons in life: Patience.Persitance.Timing.Empathy.Respect.Love .

            It became clear to me that nature could teach a man much more about himself if he would let it. Before I began fly-fishing, I viewed the trout as an inferior life form compared to myself. We may be composed of the same organic material, but our evolutionary paths brought us to different levels of consciousness. This concept changed when my casts no longer could simply be defined by science. 

The cast became my art, outward expressions of the connection of the soul to the rod. Loops cannot collapse when the fisherman exists all the way to the fly he throws. The word “sport” faded into “art” and the fly I presented to the trout with the fullest ability became a “gift”. This gift once again provides meaning to a mysterious life. Every organism is meant to survive and reproduce, a paradoxical waste of existence. The gift we give to other life around us gives meaning, which creates passion, and then finally love.

As a dry fly drifts passed a trout’s nose and the anglers fly fools the trout, both events cause an unexpected event in both creatures’ monotonous lives. For a brief moment in time, a spiritual connection occurs that links the two together creating something deeper that changes the man and fish. The conscious of the two transcends one another, and for a brief second, the imbalance in nature is balanced. The man stands in water and the trout is held in the air, the ying and yang of this moment spins in harmonious accord before the two embark from one another. The angler respects his equal and releases the fish to swim back to nature, so the trout can provide the fisherman with future generations. The wild fish transforms into shades of beautiful colors as it spawns, producing a miracle in God’s eyes. Years later, the man returns to the same water, this time with a new gift, he hands the child the weathered rod and the child casts…

            It’s hard to imagine that almost four years have passed since I received this gift. I’ve spent thousands of hours on beautiful water and I’ve been able to squeeze in a decades of experience and knowledge in my short time fly-fishing. My Grandfather kept giving and I finally took notice after it was too late. He gave me a gift that gave me a beautiful perspective on life. The meaning I found within this amazing lifestyle is that no river is too far. Every new inch of water explored is one more opportunity to connect with the future children that I pray I someday have. To give them a gift and remain here with them as they seek my guidance in this wonderful story. And finally, to give back to my Grandfather and Father, a gift that gave them meaning.

 Purpose is all around you in life, take advantage of the living world and the opportunities it presents to you, as your brightest days will awaken from the darkest hours.

Submerged

It all started out with a fly, the last one I had of a nymph pattern that seemed to be the only thing working on that particular day. The fly was lobbed into a small seam that was protected by a set of fairly mean rapids, my sighter dipped and I set into a deep snag. The kind of snag that no matter what you do it's not coming out. So I proceeded to do what any angler facing the loss of his last productive fly would do, I went in. As I navigated towards the boulder that supposedly ate up my fly, I realized it was actually caught on something lodged against it that appeared to be a bright blue. I reached down into the water to the point where only my neck and head were above the surface in attempt to free the hook, all this yielded was a wet arm. Taking a different approach I slid my boot under the mysterious blue item and gave it a swift kick towards the surface. Up comes a whitewater kayak paddle, attached to it my last SOS nymph. I unhooked my nymph and with a laugh I threw the paddle on the shore and continued to fish. As I worked my way out of the water, I stepped over the paddle, which revealed to me some faint writing in sharpie marker that had been severely faded from it's time spent under the water. On it read a name I couldn't quite make out and some numbers, which after some intense studying I realized was a phone number. I can recall thinking to myself "If I lost my fly box or rod I'd probably appreciate someone returning it", so I scooped up the awkwardly weighted paddle and struggled upstream with it. When I reached cell phone coverage on my drive home I dialed my closest interpretation of the numbers written on the paddle and got a lady on the other end that was ecstatic I had found her missing paddle. We set a meeting place and the paddle was returned. While talking with the kind older woman I came to learn she recently took up kayaking to escape some troubles in life, so she was very happy to have the paddle back, which I also learned cost around $300 (fly fishing isn't the only bank breaker). On the following weekend I made a return trip to the same stream since the fishing was so good (this time with more SOS) and while working over a section just around a mile upstream from where I found the paddle, I eerily saw another flash of blue submerged at the bottom of a fairly deep tailout. Putting my boot trick back into play, I kick up a clean looking high end wading staff. I checked for a name and number and even searched the stream for another angler who may have lost it. With no one in the vicinity I thought it'd be a welcome new addition to my gear, since I was still on the mend from an accident and could use the extra bit of help wading the tough waters that I frequent anyways. So I strapped it to my vest and proceeded upstream. As the summer progressed it helped me tread through the bigger tailwaters I fish during warmer weather and especially into Autumn when I suffered a pretty significant ankle injury while deer hunting. It had become a staple in my outdoor gear and I came to regret everything I said about them being "for old guys and purist." This winter I needed it more than ever. I had a fishing trip planned that I refused to cancel due to a blizzard. About two feet of snow blanketed the valley the day before. It was nearly impossible to navigate, but I managed and that staff was a critical piece needed to poke through the snow for an extra point of contact. I slid my way down into a canyon I have been meaning to explore. Doing my best impression of a sled, I barreled to the bottom of the sleep hillside and landed on my feet at the edge of the stream. It was nearly impossible to navigate due to the high snow banks, but I found a good fish in a deep run that was willing to eat a big meal, which kind of made the trip. On my attempt to leave I quickly learned that sliding down a steep incline in deep powdery snow was far easier than climbing back up it. I was seemingly trapped. I'd climb almost to the top and back down I'd tumble. In a last ditch effort I dug the wading staff deep into the snow and lodged it against a hidden object, just as I was propelling myself to the top and onto flat ground I slipped, lost my footing, and back into the canyon I went. At Some point during the flopping around, I caught a glimpse of the river and saw the blue end of the wading staff materialize into the deep icy water. In a fit of rage I did my best whitetail deer impression and ran straight up the cliff at a slight parallel angle and finally hit the flat of the trail at the top with a great leap. I high stepped my way back to the car and set the GPS to home. Trudging through snow of that proportion all day takes everything you have. Id argue it to be some of the best cardio and leg work outs possible. I surprisingly had that post gym satisfaction one gets after a vigorous workout. It was at that moment that I realized what had just happened to me. The wading staff that was a crutch to me in tough times was no longer needed by me and it was neither found nor lost by some coincidence. As I pictured in my mind an aging angler slowly working his way up through that dark canyon, snagging his line on a mysterious blue item on the bottom of the stream, and reaching down to see what it is, a smile overtakes me. Great life lessons were learned on that long snowy road home. Everything you do comes back around, things enter and leave your life at precisely the right moments and wading staffs aren't for just old guys and purist.

The Constant

    Cold water rushes past bruised knees and a heavy mind is washed away for a mere moment. A split second is all that is needed to be renewed in a lifetime full of hurt. The man kneels along the shallows, covered in grit and mud while his clothes are soaked by the frigid stream. He sacrifices his own comfort to release an animal, safely, that has been releasing him his entire life. The beautiful creature swims back into the wild, a place where the man's heart also dwells, constantly adventuring and yearning to see what lies beyond the next bend in the hallowed waters. For a second the man is lost in the wilderness, but soon returns to himself. The bitter cold should burn and stiffen his flesh but the fire burning inside him burns hotter as the winds of his spirit breathe to him anew. Kneeling in the mud, he whispers a prayer to his Creator, making sure to appreciate the most simplistic and complex blessing that is known as: Life. 

            How does a “sport” transcend the physical act of catching fish with a fly into a mystical art form that makes science and faith dance together in harmonious accord? Once an angler commits himself to fly fishing, he changes. A metamorphosis occurs, just as the mayfly crawls out of it's shuck. The angler’s consciousness develops, through time, into an esoteric entity. The mosaic layering of his thoughts are placed by the mixture of knowledge he must obtain to achieve his end goal: catching the trout. He collects facts and experience then blends them with hope that the variables of the day will fall into place to allow him to hook into the yellow bellied beast, he so desires. He spends years, wrapping thread and feather onto a hook, knowing the exact lay of where the materials must go. Yet, with every movement of his bobbin, he puts something intangible into the fly; his heart. The altruistic value he places into his craft symbolizes the impact that fly fishing has upon his existence.

            A trout is a small organism with basic survival needs that can be explained through scientific observation. Yet thousands of hours have been shared by anglers with the trout, while trying to bridge the divide between the two. An angler with a lifetime of experience on the water, still always seems to find a trout that he cannot catch. The variable that disrupts our comfort is always present. As humans, we record our life through numbers. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, and years are coveted by our minds, yet hold no meaning to the trout. The energy spent trying to decipher the codex of the fish, remains a beautiful mystery that one can only define through text.

            As nymphs begin to hatch, fish begin to migrate towards the fast, shallow riffles to fill their stomachs full of active bugs that help them sustain their energy. A less knowledgeable angler may simply wade through these areas without realizing what is right below his feet. The seasoned angler acknowledges the time frame and relies on his experience to dictate where he predicts the fish to hold. He then simply hopes that the fish will cooperate with him, as he goes to make his cast. This accumulation of time on the water has taught the veteran angler many things. Observations have layered his mind with truths and philosophies of life that not only pertain to the trout, but the inner introspection of the self. The complexity and simplicity of this art form intertwines and sometimes may skew the true reality of why he stands in cold water waiting for a fish he has caught countless times before. Is it an addiction to the unknown of the adventure he partakes in? Or the conditioned response to increased brain chemicals with the act of landing a trout? A scientific answer will only strip the beauty of what is sacred to the angler and will only dull the colors that illustrate the art.

            Fly fishing, is not the sport of catching trout with a fly. It is something much deeper, yet hides in plain sight; like trout feeding in the riffles. It may take an angler a lifetime to understand what unseen forces drive him constantly back to the water. The art form starts as a hobby, then transitions to a passion.Finally, it merges with the angler, becoming an incorporeal component of one’s identity. This existential process is the maturation of the angler's mind. The trout, although also a living creature of flesh, is of a lower consciousness compared to man, yet man needs the trout. Essentially, the trout is the angler’s proxy in finding meaning to his own life. The endless pursuit over a lifetime is not to simply catch the trout, it is to fill one’s life with memories and happiness while strengthening the soul with values that nature can only teach. Science and faith come together in the angler’s mind, to anticipate the unseen forces that cause anomalies within his life that teach him how to persevere when conditions change.

            In a universe full of uncertainty, the one true Constant an angler has is,
the water. 





                                 -Mike Emanuele

Contrast

Black, pitch black, a dim white light accompanied by some noise. Fumbling around in the dark house trying not to disturb anyone at 4 am on this cold January morning. A dull silver truck awakens with a subtle rumble, miles and miles of grey and black. A red light in the distance reminds me that I need some fuel for the upcoming day of cold, back to miles of grey. At some point in the darkness a dim light is on the horizon, not accompanied by the sun, it's been days, weeks, maybe coming up on a month since I saw the sun. Today is no different. It exposes dark blue mountainsides and the somber grey tones of the Pennsylvania winter. Hours later the dull silver truck pulls up into a gloomy old town, dark even on the brightest of days. The town was likely once a booming town, thriving on mines and the large factory that sits nearby, but now like most of Pennsylvania it's faded to darkness. The door swings open, bitter cold, layers and layers of boring earth toned clothing goes on. Footsteps over coal colored slags of rock lead to the stream, no signs of life are present. The water a boring navy blue, the streamside a dead brown, the forest surrounding it grey, the sky dark. Hours pass with no sign of anything alive. White, blankets of it lays the few colors present to sleep under its cover. A white piece of cork floats through the water, barely discernible to the human eye from the foam bubbles floating beside it. An abrupt stop accompanied by a swift reaction, an explosion takes place. Colors that appear not to belong in this grey realm. Yellow that's as blinding as the sun, radiant red, golden brown, a hint of purple resembling that of a precious gem, flashes of an incredible blue, splash through the flat boring water, bleeding through it's lame colored canvas like a being from another dimension. It hits my ice blue eyes and for a small split moment brightens up the depressing landscape of a Pennsylvania Winter. After a moment of spirit raising admiration the colors slowly fade into the black as quickly as they've materialized out of it. Darkness overtakes the deep valley and miles of grey follow.

Unwanted

The windy old road could have only been made a route by an old stubborn horse leading his owners from their farmstead to town in a now forgotten time, likely to trade and gather goods once per month, is now covered in gravel and used by miners to travel daily to the dark depths of the coal mines and factories of West Virginia. The path leads down a large scenic canyon, which through it's Western look seems out of place in this region of the Eastern United States. A modern horseman now rides into the canyon, not out of necessity of the bodily survival, but that of his soul. His silver steed races down the mazy labyrinthine of sandstone which towards its lower reaches gives way to limestone. Traveling at a rate 10 times greater than the stallion whose hooves pounded the Appalachian dirt into a path of least resistance long before him, he sets his sights towards the wild river that drains the hills surrounding the vastly underpopulated landscape . His expectations are high, as is his confidence, for last time he road upon this canyon he dueled with upwards of 40 finned beauties. His thoughts remind him of the allure his eyes gather as he wades his way up through the scenic river, one of the beauties of the east, he can already feel the cold breathe of the dam cooling his body on the hot summer's day, shades of turquoise blue contrasted by the white ripples caused by the rivers steep decent, not to mention the gratifying feeling of dropping his soul candy into his clear rubber basket where he admires these gems who resiled past pollution to blossom back into the colorful species in which god spent an extra few moments to paint. The daydreams shorten the trail and he sees the old white church where the road has a right hand branch that leads to the river. He makes the turn and passes through the old Appalachian strongholds to which the natives to this valley call home. Mostly unchanged from the way of life their ancestors lived when they settled in this area from Eastern Europe, the villagers of these small encampments refuse to conform to today's world, as if a protest to all that is wrong with society today.

He pulls into a small parking area and demounts from his steed. To his surprise the area that is usually glowing with life is eerily tranquil. A negative aura fills the air, not even a bird chirps. He ignores the weird feelings, suits up in all of his gear, and sets off to do battle with the mighty river. He carefully steps into the ice bottomed river and plants his boots against a rock that causes a small seam in the wild river. The observant fisherman watches the river for a few minutes looking for any signs of life that the fish would key their forage on, He strangely sees no signs of life in the river. After deciding to tie on an old standby search and destroy pattern he reaches into his vest to find that his fly box had been left in the parking area. A quick step onto a flat rock swipes the angler off of his feet in an instant, he lands hard on a rock, with his hip taking the brunt of the blow. In an effort to regain his footing he slips again and is swept off his balance yet again only this time the fall sends him under the water. His waders begin to get swamped as he swims back to the surface, a close call, yet the determination in him drives him back to the place where he left his fly box so he can go through with his mission. He quickly snatches it up and makes a straight line back to the promising run. Instead of walking the open path, he takes a shortcut through the woods, with the river in sight he picks up his step and just as he places a foot into the last tuft of weeds he hears an audible sound that will send chills down any avid outdoorsmans spine. The rattle quickly travels from his ear through his sensory system and the brain triggers the abort switch launching the angler through the air at a rate so fast that even the quickest of snakes couldn't strike. He lands in the river, his left hand catches his fall up against a log where he takes a moment to reflect on the close encounter with what is likely Appalachia's most dangerous native. As he goes to push himself off of the log and regain his balance he see's a water snake who was using the log to gather some heat on the summer's day, coiled and ready to strike the fisherman who intruded on his resting area.

 He again gathers himself and the stubborn fisherman marches forward to the juicy run. Growing exceedingly frustrated, he quickly ties on his absurd excuse for a fly and takes a cast into the current. Just as the cast is dropping into the heart of the strikezone, the angler sets into a deep snag which results in his tippet breaking and likely blowing up the spot. He reties his rig and continues working up through the section of usually promising water with the only result being a large number of flies lost to underwater debris and boulders. He has yet to even spot a trout in the gin clear water, the man can neither see nor feel any life on the river, the birds, deer, bugs, even the fish seem to have completely left the area in abandon. Out of complete arrogance the man ties on another fly, just as he puts his box back into his vest pouch, he hears some rustling in the woods behind him, being the first signs of life he has heard all day (That wasn't a snake trying to kill him), he quickly looks over his shoulder to see two men peering through the weeds pointing in his direction and sharing whispers. The two who appeared to be natives of the small Appalachian "village" quickly disappeared back into the thick timber after seeing the man had uncovered them. The man weighed the thought of catching a trophy sized fish which he knew resided in this river, with the strange negative feelings he was getting and like a mule, he pushed his way upstream towards a big chute that plunges into a nice deep hole. It was here where he had hooked a rainbow trout in the excess of twenty inches on his last outing, he was set for revenge and just as he motioned to cast he heard a loud CRACK on the hillside that towered above the river in this section. An old Hemlock tree decided to throw one of it's large branches at the angler as if to tell him to "get out". The fisherman dove out of the way of the limb and was flopping around in the river like a wounded duck, as he regained his footing he saw his rod floating away down stream, he ran to gather it slipping the whole way down. Upon gathering his rod back he found that his reel took some damage from the ordeal and was no longer functional. Angrily he ran back to shore and sets a waypoint in his brain directly back to the parking area. He hit the small path that leads along the river (this time looking for snakes and any other unexpected harm) and limped towards his exit finally admitting his defeat. Not even the hint of a bump from a fish on any of his presentations, how could this be after such a huge numbers day on his previous trip the man thought. Without even removing his water logged waders the man jumped into his steel horse and kicked it into drive, leaving his high hopes for the day in a cloud of red dust behind him. As he winds his way up and out of the deep canyon he reflected on the events that took place, lately the man had been trying to pursue his roots and fit his way into being a cog in the natural world like his ancestors were, learning hard lessons along the way. This time he learned the fable of  the natural world revealing to you warnings,when it does it's best not be arrogant to it and recognize the signals it is giving and follow suit. On that day, in that deep canyon, in the heart of Appalachia, be it for his own good or reasons he may never know, he was unwanted.

The Trout Also Rises

A sleepless boy lies awake in bed. His vivid imagination brightens the dark room in which he lays. The morning sun still hides from the moon, as the boy counts the grains of sand that fall through. In the bleakness of the night, bright colors of yellow, orange, red, blue, and so on fill his mind. His coming of age trip awaits him. Just like every other boy his age, the anticipation of opening day of trout season knocks at the midnight hour.

   Now that same boy is a young man, yet he still lies wide-eyed on the comforts of his pillow. He now knows that two things remain constant in nature: Time and Water continuously flow by his life and he can never have enough of the two. The man has been blessed to step foot in many different streams yet he desired to see a certain event on hallowed water. He heard the chatters and stories from men far past his elder that giant, notoriously lock jawed Salmo trutta would engorge their gullet on locust-esque monsters in a biblical event that only Moses’ himself could call up from the depth of the dolomite dungeons that shield the predators below. His restlessness awakened visions of these fabled flying creatures, known as, the Green Drake. His youthful arrogance caused him to remain skeptical and doubt the words of men his wiser. Would these may-dragons awake the beasts that laid dormant below? Would the hoards of angling pilgrims choking the stream cause him to curse this event and never return? These thoughts kept him awake until the alarm cried out that his time had come and he must begin his journey to the mecca. By 5 am he was on the road, his comrades wheels howled to the morning moon that began to run from the waking sun. Farmland gave way to rolling hills that climbed to steep mountain peaks that had rich hearts of lime that gave life to this precious water.  The man and his friend discussed their growing skeptiscm and both agreed they were not sure the coming day could match their ballooned expectations. They arrived and to their surprise, other fisherman had not yet arrived to this anticipated event. The young man eagerly ran down to the waters edge and his joyful movements awakened the mummies-to-be that laid still awaiting their tombs. His face was astonished at their sheer size and numbers. Within seconds his doubts began to vanish. Would the mythical tales soon become true? He sure hoped so. Excitement soon began to take hold of him as he and his friend entered the cold clear water. As he waded in, he looked down and gasped at the sheer amount of nymphal shucks that brushed past his legs. These ghastly creatures had felt the hand of Mother Nature and swam from their house of muck to cross the into an unknown world.

            The man took a dry fly from his box and tied it to his line. He had never thrown such a beastly thing; his usual flies were tender and aesthetic. This large fly was rugged and boisterous. Casting this would be more like chucking a rock he thought to him self. Yet he knew to put aside his pride and listen to his friend. The two began to walk down stream and quickly they were met with welcome. Slurp after slurp, the trout fed. Feeding on the leftovers of the nights fall. The two began to sling their woven hooks at the gluttonous finned fiends. The crippled dun would ride the surface waiting for its sneak attack. The trout snacked in their harmonious rhythm.  The two anglers fooled quite a few lively trout to begin their trek into the mountain valley. The young mans soul was in high spirits because of their fast success, but the trout he had landed were all of the past. None of the fish caught his eye. Even though he was in high spirits, he felt the tug of the fisherman’s soul., that primal drive that turns the “last cast” into thousands more. He sought out the fish from the elder’s tales as they had stoked a fire that had burned this man’s entire life. The man kept his head held high and his eyes scanned the turning water for a sign of something bigger. The men fished for miles over treacherous water and bone breaking boulders. The sun climbed the mountains that hid the fly fisherman until mother earth could not hide her children from the sizzling heat. The man felt his muscles quiver and his knees begin to ache yet he knew that pushing through till the end was the only way a fisherman should live. Both anglers pushed on with all their might. Cast after cast his bones cried but he knew each cast was one closer to the beast he sought. Bleached skies and radiant light burned their flesh yet the finned fiends did not mind, they consumed and consumed like gluttonous pigs. The young man finally had to stop. They had arrived at a gentle bend where the roaring water swirled into a tender stretch. Two boulders could be seen between this yielding flow and its quickening tail. Smaller trout continued to rise. The younger man sat and watched as his elder continued to throw and throw. He could see the exhaustion and fatigue in his friend’s eyes. As he began to scan the pool, a small subtlety caught his eye. Something different, something quiet, something that wanted to remain hidden.. He continued to intensely stare upon this shadow zone until it happened. The dolomite door was rolled away, what lied beneath had thought it had sneaked but its blood lust for the drake caused it to lose his instinct. The young fisherman’s eyes grew wide and his face drained as he had seen a ghoul. The beast continued to rise from his lair in rhythmic fashion.  He snapped to his feet and ready his rod, his heart pounded and his hands shook. The biggest brown trout he had ever seen continued to rise before him. He waited and watched and when he felt the time was right he gracefully flung the crippled fly in symphonic fashion. As the fly celestially floated down to the surface, the man’s pride had lied and told him to be ready. In a split of a second that seemed to last a century, the old chiseled fish who rose to happily engulf the fly felt something was astray.  The goliath’s wild intuition came back to him and it’s old fins slapped the fly as he fled from its trickery. The first battle cry was led out and both contestants knew this fight would not end soon.

            The old fish shook the young man’s confidence, and he began to cast and cast out of youthful arrogance. His friend came down the stream to see why the young man had been planted in the water. Confusion dressed his friend’s face until the demon rose again. The older man’s face was shocked and he yelled to him that the beast was bigger than anything he had seen. The younger man moved down and let his friend in and they both begin to cast. The beast ignored each and every fly. Smirking at the two showing his wet wisdom, the yellow-bellied behemoth continually shook his snout at their patterns. The two men cast for over an hours time. The elder man had decided to hang his fly but the younger man was driven to catch this swimming myth. He began to enter a trance while he slung his fly over and over into the drift. He began to gingerly move his feet at different angles to find the right angle where the hawk-eyed fish would make a fatal error. In his trance, his confidence had gone missing. His persistence kept him going at the fish but blind casts were what they really were.  Finally the man’s feet moved in a new direction and his shoulders squared his fly into a new drift. In this split second, the ancient beast had grown zealous and he was fooled by this unique flow. The fish sprang forth from his dungeon and ripped his teeth into the feathered hook. 

In the young man’s daze, his friend yelled that the time had come, the young man’s eyes had failed him as they had grown weary. All of a sudden the man woke up and swung his sword back at the beast..

            The sky was still bright but in the young man’s eyes everything had grown dreary. As the fish went to slurp the fly, the man’s senses overreacted and he drove the fly into the lunker’s lip all too bluntly. The young man felt like a boy as his line flailed back in the wind and greeted his face. He fell to his feet, soulless and defeated. His older friend could not believe what had happened. Things fell quiet as he sat there. The two could not fathom this reality. The young mans heart broke when the tippet twanged. The older friend gave words of encouragement and said he would continue on but the young man could not accept this fate. He chose to sit and introspect upon the things he had done wrong so this would never happen again. Time began to drift away as he sat there figuring out how he would be able piece his fragile self back together. His friend left to seek new risers but he chose to stay, some wild intuition was transfigured into him that glimpse of time the fish was hooked before the tippet broke. The two had become connected and now the young man knew he would not give up. A half hour pasted until something different happened again. The fisherman focused in on the spot just as he had before. This time he knew his adversary had returned.

 Sipp.Slurrrpp.Sipppppppp. The man sat watching, this time his heart did not race. He knew he had grown since their last encounter only a short while before. His plan this time was to let Goliath control the board and only move his pieces into action when the aging fish was not ready. He sat watching and studying the water warrior’s movements and analyzing this fishes quirks. The sun slowly began to descend down the mountain and different bugs began to fly. The young man’s friend returned from his journey astonished to see that he still sat where he had left him. He explained to him that he would wait until dusk to make another cast. The older man gave him a crazy look but he sensed the determination and moved up stream to find more fish.

As the night air began to draw in, fishermen began to migrate towards the hidden section that the young man had been fishing. He grew agitated as fools began to herd around trying to inch in to the waiting battlefield. One by one more fly fishermen crept in. Pressuring him to put up his guard and prepare for the final battle. He knew the time wasn’t right as the beastly fish was out of rhythm but stranger’s flies began to coat the water. Reluctantly, he tied on another cripple dun. He moved back behind his enemies line and lightly fanned his fly back into the drift.  He was not ready to catch the beast but knew he had to protect what he had staked out.

Fisherman after fisherman poured into the area and the young man had to hide the feeding monster. Soon another man crept too close into the beast’s water. The young man knew it was time to act quickly, goliath was beginning to rise in closer sequence but this time the toothed terror ignored the great mighty drakes. The angler’s heart began to beat harder as he saw the other fisherman close in. He watched the giant fish, trying to figure out what it hungered for. All of a sudden, a bead of gold floated up from the hidden treasure of the dolomite dungeon. A sulphur emerged and the brown behemoth was overcome by the tasty treat. The fish pounced , slurped, sloshed and slapped the water. The young man had seen enough, he grinned and time seemed to once again slow down as he tied the size 16 sulphur emerger pattern to his tippet. The approaching angler waded faster to cast to the prized fish.  The young man threw his first perfect cast and smirked to the greedy approaching man.

He took a breath as he and the beautiful fish locked eyes. The giant rose and sipped the perfect pattern. In this moment, all was silent. The fisherman and fish were connected to one another again and then…chaos.

The man swung his sword and this time connected. The Grendel became enraged and the wrath of war erupted. The fish pulled harder than anything the man had felt before. His 5wt rod began to buckle to the beast but the man would not give into its mythical might. His reel cried out as the fish flung through the air. Run after wicked run the fish thrashed and thrashed. The man grew tired as he fought his greatest foe. He yelled for his friend who tromped down through the water to him, amazed that his persistence had brought upon the reckoning the young angler sought. Anglers began to watch as he fought the beast. At once he realized what his pride had blinded him from…. the net. He had forgot the net. His lust for revenge slowly began to diminish, as he knew that his foolishness would cost him his treasure.

The old beast began to tire and the young man knew that risking this fish’s life for greed would haunt him for a lifetime. Instead, the angler bowed his head pulled the beast into his feet. The fish’s immaculate beauty was showcased onto him as it bowed out before his feet. The man reached down and brushed the fish with his hand under the water, showing his respect. The trout looked up to the man and then shook his vomerine-clad jaws. The giant swam back to its haunt where it would continue to reign. Everyone around the young man had a look of disgust as the fish slipped from his fingers. This time around though, the man stood their smiling. He knew he experienced something on those hallowed waters that few would be blessed with.

As he walked out from the stream he rested upon the bank, thinking about all the events that had just taken place. He knew that the beast would swim through his dreams but all was okay with the fact that his heart had pulled through and pushed away the greed that would have slayed the beast. The young man sat there staring into the water when suddenly the sight that the two men had come to see had appeared almost as an apparition upon the water. Millions of coffin flies returned to their final resting place in miracle like fashion. The biblical sight consumed his mind as the dying drakes zoomed around him. Amazed, the man smiled.

 All was at peace.

A Blank Place Paints A Colorful Mind: My Journey to Penn's Creek

    

      “To those devoid of imagination a blank place on the map is a useless waste; 

                           to others, the most valuable part.” –Aldo Leopold

            Every year that I grow older, my perception of the world evolves through a “phoenix-like” metamorphosis. Ideas and images are created, built, and then torn down as my mind learns and grows.  Remote water that I fished in my youth slowly becomes more civilized and controlled as my innocence is washed away.  The slightly looming feeling of predictability and order influences your imagination and strips you of the sensation of the unknown. Sitting against the giant sycamore that sat firmly rooted along the water as a boy, left my mind wondering of this elder’s origin and if it had been waiting for me all this time. Sadly, I couldn’t understand the fact that the towering ivory colored giant wasn’t planted by legends or had a mysterious past. It most likely was planted by a man, who looked like myself, for more grounded reasons.

            Fortunately, places still do exist in this world that can open closed windows in one’s heart and mind. I stumbled upon this water at the right time. My eyes had grown hazy and my mind had begun to close off paths that winded and twisted. These paths weren’t simple. They complicated the maturing mind. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. Most of the places I had been fly-fishing came close within populated places, and yet they contained beautifully colored fish, their beauty was stunted by my closed mind. I agreed to take the journey to this water that I had heard of from others. They talked of forests and mountains that even Tolkien couldn’t put into words. Massive boulders strewn along the hillsides that pointed down to the calming water. A peaceful water that the native people would have been mystified by because of its clear reflection. Yet the real reason for the almost sacred talk of this water was the amazing treasure that hides within its liquid “chest.” Once the angler takes the time to open its lock, a world of colors painted by God can be seen and held. Yellows, gold’s, greens, blues, and so on will meet the pursuer. Although seated beneath all the high praise, murmurings of murky water filled the discussion. A celestial environment stained by the reluctant attitude of the creatures that swim below. Men are drawn here to find their “fountain of youth” but are tortured by the rthymic pattern of the treasure teasing them feet away. The water grows colder around the ankles with each disrespected drift. Only those willing to sacrifice the hours of their own life will ever be able to obtain what they sought out for.

These words replayed in my head as I turned off of the blacktop to reach this hidden valley, the uniform road that I had grown used to, began to deteriorate and became less obvious. The smoothness of the black top was replaced by the chaotic disarray of a road that had seemed to escape the balance of society. The road rumbled up a steep mountain to its peak. As I arrived at the top, I rolled the window down. The bleak silence of the wind whispered into my ear, that it was time to begin anew. The twisted and complicated roads that my mind had blocked off began to reopen. The innocence of a young imagination was needed to carry on with my journey. I eased my metal steed slowly down the tumbling mountain and entered into a forest where time had waited, at least for me, to arrive to a place that I had heard call from afar. I arrived at a place with a strange name. A name that seems destined to be created by a youthful dream.  Usually, I would race to the water after a long drive, but this time I took my time and let my senses consume the environment.  For once I was living within the moment, existing within a realm I had been seeking. I gathered my gear and headed onward to the limestone glass. I stood on the soft sandy bank and day dreamed about the hour. The smell of spring filled the air and hope rushed through my veins. With my head held high, I stepped into the gin clear water. A new world full of life much smaller than I coexisted below me, I felt like the real life Gulliver and these little life forms were ready to help me, trick me, or teach me in my travels. I stood there and watched the “treasure chest” begin to shake, the “treasure” taunted me as it stepped into my world, like I just had done to it.  Overconfidently, I smirked, thinking that my day would be filled with an over flow of wealth. I tied on my dry fly and began to bend the air, I effortlessly launched the key to my success. Except, it was not the one that would unlock the priceless “chest”. The trout watched and scoffed as my fly drift by. Over and over this repeated, I slowly began to get desperate. I switched my fly and to no avail, the trout turned his nose and shook his fin. The chest shook more and more as colors slowly popped out of its lid. I tried “key” after “key” but each one lead to no avail. There were so many dry flies in the pocket of my waders; it looked like an old pillow full of fluffy feathers. I had become encompassed by the breathtaking scenery that renewed my mind but it became apparent that this bounty I had been seeking would not come by hast. Trout after trout, sipped the surface like I envision Churchill would drink his tea. The smugness of these fish filled my dreams. One by one, I was denied and held unworthy.

I stood in the stream with a sense of disbelief draped over my face, wondering if I should of listened to my experienced peers. A howl rang out from behind, high up from the heavens.  I quickly looked backed to see the darkness of the mountains beginning to slither down into the valley. The serenity was smashed like a pane of stained glass as bolts of lightning struck the boulders to my right. Rain and hail pelted my face as I gathered my defeated self and took for shelter. While sprinting to safety from this grisly storm, I turned and glanced towards the rippling water. A haunting thing happened, the “chest” shook once more. 

   

 It was then I decided I would return to this maleficent kingdom and figure out the secrets that lay in its depths. Deep within me, something awoke. I would return again and again to a place where this reality fears to climb up and over the nestled mountains. This would start my lifelong pilgrimage to a stream named Penns Creek.