A Drift Under the Surface

A Drift Under the Surface

       by Mike Emanuele / July 12th 2016

       It was getting hot and so was my temper. I had just retied a few new sections of tippet because my concentration had begun to wander mid cast. My nymphs hung up in the branch above me softly swaying and passively mocking my blunder. Sweat dripped into my eyes as it fell from brow. The combination of piercing sunlight, suffocating heat, and a restless night of sleep made my patience subside to a new low. Everything was tied back up and I was once again ready. My eyes focused on a perfect run which was canopied by an overhanging root tangle. I blocked out my thoughts and let my muscle memory take over the cast. The nymphs gracefully plopped down into the perfect angle, a cast I couldn’t repeat. My pride overtook and I let out a smile as a daydreamed of a twenty inch Brown coming from the depths to strike my flies. I would hold him high and proud for a picture to plaster all over social media. The dream had me grinning ear to ear until it distracted me long enough to delay my lead. My nymphs delicately drifted into an unforeseen nemesis, a submerged log. I couldn’t take it. I quickly broke off my tippet and threw my rod and self onto the bank.

             Nothing was going my way and it had seemed this regression had been taken place for the past weeks or so. It was my 73^rd day on the water for the year. Dollars, equipment, blood, sweat, and tears had been sacrificed this past year when I decided it was time to take my fly fishing to a new skill level. Competitiveness can be a blessing, allowing some to attain skills that few men can reach but this instinctive drive that men like myself possess,  can be a true Achilles’ heel of self destruction. My drive to be the best had me sitting on a weeded stream bank in central Pennsylvania having a toddler-esque meltdown.

            Exhausted, I stretched my legs out and put my boots into the water. The cold clear water rushed into my waders through the large holes in my stockings. My eyes opened. I could see once again. I began to see the things that I had always loved. The contrasts of colors of all different forms of life all around me and the harmonic balance of nature that was nestled into the pristine spring water that roared past my boots. I slowly took my boots out of the water and stood on the bank. The silt and gravel that was loosened from feet slowly drifted downstream, nature had begun to clean itself. As the shroud of dirt lifted, a small brown trout poked his head through the jungle of watercress. It was then I had realized what I had forgotten. The foolish pursuit of my own ego had blinded me. The veil of dirt in my own eyes had finally drifted past and I was nothing more than the small creature I had been seeking. A fly fisherman’s version of nirvana…

           

 As fly fishermen we are called to take care of the lesser creature that gives our lives meaning. We must protect the true beauty and innocence of these animals from man’s selfish pursuit of possessions. Man’s ignorance will always leave a path of destruction and it is up to us to be the guardians. Strive to educate your fellow fishermen and help them see the real meaning of this sport. Make sure your mind is in the right place while on the water and not focusing on catching a trophy to brag on your Instagram account. They say that things posted on the internet last forever. Unfortunately the beautiful trout that took ten years to achieve its size that you kept out of the water for five minutes to take the perfect picture of…will not last forever, let alone the next hour.  The concept of life is something humans have become too comfortable with as we set out to build a world of our own. Yet we forget about the mystery of our own beginning and we fail to keep “life” sacred. Do not forget the reason you rise early in the morning, remember that they are out there rising for you too…