Fly Fish Chick

In my last post I blatantly stole a topic from FlyTalk because the comment thread was wildly entertaining and I just couldn’t resist moving the party over here to keep it going awhile longer. You all did not disappoint! Your comments have been thoughtful and dishy.

So it’s time for me to climb down off the fence and share my opinions. Although I think you will see, by nature, I am not that vehement about many of these issues one way or the other. Frankly it’s the dialogue about them that interests me more than reaching conclusion or defending a position. That said, here I go.

As for the original question, ‘What makes a fly a fly?’ My response is visceral, not scientific. I like the notion that a fly should be tied from all-natural materials that were once part of a living creature. But I have to admit I love a foam hopper. Or a black foam ant. So I’m letting those in. I don’t care for the gelatinous gummy things, they seem tacky. And nothing with metal discs or added satellite systems clinking around.

And more than one hook? I don’t even understand that. The Lone Star Brewery’s original Hall of Horns Museum in San Antonio had a wonderful collection of deformed animals that had been stuffed and mounted. Deer with drop-tynes coming out of the strangest places. A fly with more than one hook belongs in such a museum. Or on a spinning rod.

Moving on…there seems to be general agreement that ipods are a no-no while fishing. Interesting. Okay, some progress. Everyone’s getting along on this point. Lovely. A glimmer of consensus.

Unfortunately, yall are all wrong.

Perhaps we should break it down a bit further. I would never wade with an ipod. That’s just one more thing to deal with on my person. And I would not listen to an ipod on the boat with the earphones, any more than I would drive in my car using the earphones. That would be too isolating. Plus I am like Barbara Walters on a driftboat. I can get grown men talking and sharing. Drift Boat Confessions.

But I do like to take a little set of ipod speakers on my boat. That’s right, you heard me. Ipod speakers on the boat.

Now obviously I’m not blaring music. And I don’t play it when other boats/fisherman are around. But trust me friends, you can catch trout with some background music. I like floating down the river with Faron Young and vintage Buck Owens. I like to think about the pretty rainbow that was caught while I was rowing to James Brown. Or how a switch to some Willie Nelson was just the momentum change we needed to end a fishless dry spell.

And I am here to tell you Kelly Willis’ voice can literally make a hatch happen. One summer evening she literally sang the caddis into the air.

That is the word on ipods. Perhaps I should move a little more quickly through some of these other points…

Upstream, downstream, right hand in, left hand out, do the hokey pokie, turn yourself around. I don’t know, I’m no purist here. In fact, I actually love looking in front of the boat and eyeing the next chunk of juicy water. Downstream is all about the future. That appeals to me.

Obviously I love trout. I cut my teeth on freshwater fishing, but I have to say I am pretty hooked on (obsessed with?) bonefishing. I just like who I am when I’m out there on a salty flat. Saltwater fishing doesn’t seem to bring the weighty self-critical thoughts that trout fishing sometimes does. Life is just shiny and bright. And damn good.

I hope more and more saltwater is on my horizon. It’s certainly getting more and more of my mental real estate these days. Just last night I made an ISLAND playlist on my ipod. Sadly I have no salty trips planned, but hey, as I just read in ‘The River Why’ sometimes the time spent not fishing is just as important as time on the water.

Dries or nymphs? Dries. Dries. Dries. I learned to fish on dries and didn’t think there was another option for a long time. My mother is such a dry fly snob that if someone dares to suggest nymphs, she will set down her rod, cross her arms in protest and retire for the day.

That said, I am earnestly trying to learn to be a better nymph fisher. I will admit the first time I rigged up my own rod with two weighted flies, an indicator and split shot, my heart was ready to sink as well. Suddenly my line had the grace of a teenager’s smile with a mouth full of braces. But I got my ass kicked on the river that day and my respect began then and there. The more I have fished with anglers who can truly make magic happen with a nymph system, I get it. I really do. And, humbly, I am working on it myself.

But no bananas on the boat. Period.

As an aside, you should know bananas are very good if you are shooting a gun. They have nutrients that naturally improve hand-eye coordination. Curious how I know this?

When I was in high school some friends discovered that our very small, very conservative, all-girls prep school had a Rifle Team. Who knew? We were bored and decided to try out our Junior Year as a bit of a gag. I feel bad to this day because we all made the team and the three Goth girls who started it quit in protest.

We were excited because the team practiced on a nearby college campus — a surefire opportunity to meet cute fraternity boys. We would boldly traipse across their campus in our plaid kilts and saddle oxfords…carrying a rifle case. Can you imagine? After practice we’d dip into this nearby college dive bar. The barkeep was nice enough to serve minors without blinking an eye and would stash our target rifle behind the bar while we played the jukebox and drank beer in our high school uniforms.

But when we had an actual Rifle Meet, we were laser-focused. Our coach made us eat a banana 30 minutes before each round. I think it worked! In the regional finals we beat our brother school like a drum – a victory which turned out to be infinitely more gratifying than meeting any cute college boys. Which we never did. Well, at least not through the Rifle Team.

But I digress. Yes, if you touch the leader and get a visual of the fish it counts.

If more people had a low-key attitude such as this perhaps we wouldn’t have such a healthcare crisis in America. I think less stress is the answer. The cost of a monthly massage should be covered in the most basic health insurance plan. Problem solved.

I love the Godfather Trilogy as a complete package. If forced to choose the best of the three, I would say Godfather II. But there are scenes from the first that are sublime. When Michael returns to the house after the attempt on Vito’s life. His mouth starts to take on the shape, sound and cadence of his father’s. The restaurant scene as Michael stumbles though Italian then forcefully takes control in English.

And I have to say, I think Godfather III is just as it needed to be. Michael alone in that garden similar to his father when he died. But Vito died with his grandson, Michael was alone, having outlived his daughter. Ugh! So tragic and rich. I have no ill will for Godfather III as many people do. I think it was the perfect last panel in the triptych.

Which brings us to barbecue. Barbecue. As a young tot I grew up in Dallas and remember getting sliced beef brisket sandwiches at Peggy Sue’s Barbecue in Snyder Plaza. I was in heaven. I had no knowledge of other kinds of barbecue. I had no knowledge of any barbecue debate. I just loved a sliced brisket sandwich.

I was in the sixth grade when we moved to Tennessee. At one of my first sleepovers in Nashville, the girl’s parents offered to take us out for barbecue. Cheers from all the kids. The establishment was familiar in feel. Casual, hearty, rough around the edges. I was still clueless.

Nothing could have prepared me for the meat they placed before me. It was flesh-colored. Chopped fine. And the color of human flesh. And the sauce! Had they watered down the sauce? Why was it so thin?

Of course I had manners and didn’t make a stink, but hell if I didn’t tell my parents all about it the next day. And that’s when my father had to sit me down and have The Talk. I was no longer innocent and unspoiled in the ways of the world. Now I knew. The dirty truth. Pork Barbecue.

I avoided Tennessee barbecue for the most part. I would eat it only if the situation required me to do so in order to avoid being impolite. When I went off to college in North Carolina, the problem became more palpable. Every football game started with a pig on a spit at a fraternity house pre-party. My freshman year I read a wonderful piece by southern writer Roy Bount Jr about the great barbecue debate. I decided to get off the fence and take a stand. I was going to defend Texas Beef loud and proud.

And I did. Texas Beef or bust. I ruffled many feathers. And got very drunk at many UNC football games sucking on Bourbon & Coke, having had nothing to eat at my date’s pre-party.

But then something strange happened. Somewhere along the way. Something biological took over that defies logic or values. I developed an actual taste for pork barbecue. I really like it! Could it be there is just good and bad pork barbecue? Good and bad beef barbecue?

So my venom for pork barbecue has faded with time. Now that I am back in Texas I am covered up in all the beef brisket I can handle. And ironically nostalgia for my southern upbringing has placed pork barbecue up on a pedestal. Sort of the same way I revered beef barbecue when I lived away from Texas. So for me, I suppose barbecue really has less to do with culinary pride, and more to do with being a little bit homesick.

Either way you slice it – or chop it – the fiery barbecue debate has settled to a slow cooked simmer in my mind.

Texmex food on the other hand…don’t get me started. I fear I cannot even be polite on this topic. I’m glad all of you in other states love it so much, but please stop trying to imitate it. You can’t. Texmex food belongs in Texas. And when I visit Tennessee, Carolina, Georgia, New Orleans, or NYC the answer is No Thank You. No, I don’t want to try the new Mexican restaurant that just opened in your neighborhood. For heavens sake I get grouchy when I travel to Mexico because they can’t even get it right.

Texmex food belongs in Tejas. Period.

So while you chew on that, let me say once again how much I loved all of your responses in the previous post. Thanks to FlyTalk for letting me steal their idea and thanks to all of you for keeping the party going. On that note, Little Chick and I are out the door for some migas and bean & cheese breakfast tacos. And rest assured they will be proper refried beans. Not black beans.

Via con dios muchachos.

One thing I hope you’ve noticed about this blog is that I like to keep the overall tone positive. I try hard not to throw anyone under the bus except myself — which is hard because there are some real idiots out there who are practically begging me to mock them. But I’m not taking the bait– at least not in print. (Come find me around a campfire.)

Your comments seem to track along these positive lines as well, which I really appreciate. Granted I’m pretty sure some of you are hitting the sauce pretty hard when you write them (which I love of course!) but all the comments are funny, poignant and all-around a good read. Makes for some good clean fun, don’t you think?

That said, the boys over at Fly Talk have launched a debate that has caught my eye, so I thought I’d bring it over here for a change of pace. Their question is: What makes a fly a true fly? Does it have to be made of natural materials that were once part of a living creature? What about foam? Does it make a difference if they are tied or glued? Do “spoon flies” and gummy minnows count if you throw them on a flyrod?

So have at it. Give us your thoughts. A rare blessing from me to get more aggressive in the Fly Fish Chick comment thread. Shout it from the mountain top, tell us how you feel.

While we’re at it, let’s roll up our sleeves and cover some other touchy topics…

Would you listen to an ipod while fishing? (another Fly Talk debate)

Cast upstream only — or is downstream acceptable?

Freshwater or saltwater?

Dries or nymphs?

Are bananas really bad hoodoo on a fishing trip?

If you touch the leader and the fish unbuttons, does it count as a boated fish?

How do we solve America’s healthcare crisis?

What’s the best movie in the Godfather trilogy?

And once and for all, would the real BBQ please stand up….Texas Beef or Southern Pork?

Got anything else?…Throw it in the mix! Vent to your heart’s content. Be loud. Be nice. Anthony’s in charge of breaking up any fights and making sure no one says anything mean to me.

I’d say this pretty much describes my week so far. Just substitute the ‘acid’ flashback for the recurring vision (and associated cold sweats) of seeing 150 second-graders all bowling at precisely the same time.

Ah, the end-of-school bowling party.

Lest you think all I do is guzzle beer, chase Texas bands and pretend to know people who flyfish…let me take a moment to set the record straight. You see in my day-to-day life I’m actually a pretty good Homeroom Mom, so I volunteered to drive a carload of Little Chick’s classmates to the bowling party. Oh. My. Word. It was hysterical.

Little Lebowski Urban Achievers as far as the eye could see.

And yet, despite wrapping up the end of school party, we’re still not done! Oh, no no no, we are inching our way across the finish line with school this year. I’m still shuttling children and delivering popsicles. Yet in the midst of my chaos yesterday, Little Chick starts chiding me because I haven’t replaced our recycling bin. I backed over the old one awhile ago and splintered it into a million shards of blue plastic.

Suddenly Little Chick cared. Deeply. She sprung into action and called on her second-grade Earth Day education to create a mini recycling center and help save my environmental soul:

I thought it was pretty damn cute. She may have started the week as a Little Lebowski Urban Achiever, but she’s taken a definite turn toward Uppity Mountain Hippie.

It seemed like the prefect opportunity to have a lively chat about the world’s limited natural resources. So I pulled out this cool graphic depicting the global distribution of water:

I may as well have dropped a bowling ball on her foot. She moaned and groaned and rolled her eyes and throwing her hands in the air, she begged to be released from the whole conversation.

Oh well. For now I am just going to stick to driving, bowling and popsicles.

Okay, so we only saw two out of three on the river over Memorial Day. It was a straight-up, knock-it-back, hill country honkytonk holiday weekend. The trout were likely hunkered down low, shuddering in fear and mocking us all as we devolved into my favorite variety of the human species, The Hillbillius Redneckus.

Joke is on those snooty trout because it was a hell of a good time.

Make video montages at www.OneTrueMedia.com

If you have school-aged children you know what I mean. The centrifugal force that is hurling us all toward the end of the school year brings about enough activities and chaos to rival the holiday season. Spanish skits, zoo field trips, recitals, computer lab open house, last minute playdates, track and field day, ordering the summer camp trunk and ironing labels in all the camp clothes.

I’m in it big time.

Which means fishing is on the back burner for me for the time being. So I have to live vicariously through emails and phone calls of friends and family in Montana. To synthesize these multiple reports for you…well it’s pretty simple…

Three weeks from today. This bird flies west in three little ole weeks. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock…

Apparently the creepy image of the guy in the Cricketeer suit was the last straw.

Really?

In between fishing stories I’ve talked about weed cupcakes, shrinking penises, skinny-dipping, beer, beer, more beer, shown videos of half-naked chicks baked out of their minds at a Willie Nelson picnic, cussed, ranted, called a supreme court justice ‘Darlin’, made disparaging remarks about osprey nests, and wrote an entire post on the pros and cons of spoon-casting.

But the Cricketeer suit was too much for yall?

Whew. My instincts are way off. My father is a pretty loyal reader of this blog and when I noticed he hadn’t chimed in this week, I rang him up and pried for his take on the Cricketeer. I think these are pretty much his exact comments:

“I tend to agree with your readers who felt the need to vomit in their own mouths.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything, but it’s really not your best work.”

“Let’s just say if I were a first-time visitor, I wouldn’t come back.”

“Don’t worry, even Hemingway couldn’t bat a thousand.”

“Whoa, I’d follow up with a conservation topic if I were you.”

“Why don’t you do what real writers do and have a cache of story ideas on-hand for a slow week?”

“No matter what, don’t tell your red fishing story. I’d hold off on that one for awhile.”

Yep, that pretty much sums it up. And was a short conversation.

So with that in mind I settled-in to write a sensible, thought-provoking fishing piece that would appeal to the masses and keep everyone’s breakfast down. Hmmm, I’m sure we could all have a lively conversation about the current argument over access on the Applegate River in Oregon. Stream access debates are always a good time.

Or there’s my on-going fascination with the Why Wild movement. Having spent the bulk of my career brainwashing the American public with sharp advertising messages and cutting edge graphics, I am fascinated by their approach to this conservation issue. Eat more of the very species we are trying to save. At first it seems counter-intuitive, but their presentation is so sophisticated and fresh that I am halfway out the door to the grocery to buy wild salmon and cook it for dinner.

Oh wait, I don’t cook.

So I could talk about a personal favorite, the evils of Leafy Spurge. I know, I know, sounds like a bad name for a garage band. But really it’s a noxious weed that is eroding the banks of the Smith River, and it’s quite serious.

Compelling topics, all of them, but I couldn’t seem to focus. I was batting some ideas around with a friend and he concurred that it was probably time to do a meaty, substantive post. After all, people are going to start to think I am a little crazy.

I’m so sorry…what was that? Did he just call me crazy? Crazy?

Well hells bells, I am from the South for heavens sake. You tell ‘em Julia…

Screw it. I may be a little weighted toward the color in my commentary of late, but certainly my fellow fishing writers have the conservation issues covered at the moment. These blogging boys always beat me to the punch on the substantive topics anyway. And they write about them so passionately and thoroughly – I’d hate to seem redundant. 

Then again, Patsy copied one man’s crazy words and just sang ‘em in her own special way. I think we can all agree that worked out quite well…

So maybe I do have a little conservation speak in me. But it’s Friday. Stream access, endangered fish and noxious weeds will be waiting for us on Monday. For now, why doesn’t somebody just bring me a beer and I’ll tell you all about the time I caught a Texas redfish in my bra & panties…

Move over Simms. Look out Cloudveil. Who needs waders when you’ve got the Cricketeer?

Granted the ad doesn’t say anything about its wicking potential, but hey, this suit stretches, twists, bends and is wrinkle-resistant. Seems like perfect river attire for The Gentleman Angler.

So if The Cricketeer does anything you can, what will you do in your Cricketeer?

On any given day you’re going to have your ass handed to you on the river. Like yesterday. I gave those fish everything I had. I left my soul in that riverbed, to no avail. Finally I retreated to the banks to join the beer drinkers and languish in the early evening heat.

But we had one Warrior on our team who wouldn’t say die. He fished every inch of that river. He’d cast an inch farther to the left. But the fish would move over a few inches. So he’d cast a few inches over there. He’d alter his mend by a few inches, adjust his indicator up a few inches.

He fought and clawed and fished as fiercely as I’ve ever seen. And eventually, he pulled out the rainbow we’d all been looking for.

We celebrated all eighteen beautiful inches of it. Proof that the inches we need are everywhere around us.

Nothing in this big ole bad world of fly fishing tickles me more than a Spoon Casting Clinic. Perhaps you haven’t heard the term (I’m working on the copyright) but I know you know what I’m talking about. It’s when you are casting so badly that your guide can no longer explain, in words, all the things you are doing wrong. So he stands flush behind you, wraps his arms around yours, holds your hand on the rod and makes the cast for you.

A Spoon Casting Clinic. I think it’s supposed to make me feel the mistakes I’m making in my cast. But it just makes me giggle.

On the flipside I’ve learned — through years and years of hands-on-my-hands research — that talking about the Spoon Casting Clinic will, in turn, make the guys blush a spell. Ladies, I am here to tell you that the mere mention of a Spoon Casting Clinic is your most powerful tool when you’re learning this sport.

First of all if you have a grumpy guide, or a guide that’s intimidating you, just tell him you heard that he’s the Best in the West at a Spoon Casting Clinic. He’ll be puzzled at first, but when you start to explain it, he will be momentarily humbled and slightly embarrassed. For a second he’ll ponder if it’s really true. I don’t know why, but it is foolproof. Lightens-up the mood instantaneously.

If you have a young, super polite guide, go ahead and ask if the Spoon Casting Clinic is included in the price. He will grin and stammer, trying to make a snap decision whether to join you in the joke or hold on to his professional demeanor. A touch cruel perhaps, but it will give you a little spring in your step — which ironically might be just what you need to start casting like a pro!

Now I hope I don’t have to spell this one out for you, but if your guide is really really hot, uh…start casting really really badly.

Of course the power of the Spoon Casting Clinic works off the water too. Last year I was minding my own business at the bar. A real blowhard fisherman rolled into town, all amped-up to hit the water the next day. I asked who was guiding him. Ooh…I responded. Oh yeah he’s a good guide, just be careful. He’s prone to Spoon Casting his male clients.

Hey, it shut the guy up for at least a few seconds.

And ladies, if you’re the superior angler, don’t be afraid to offer a little Spoon Casting Clinic of your own. Nothing livens up a sleepy bar like a round of Hot Damn shots and an impromptu Spoon Casting Clinic.

There is, however, one thing I would caution against. If you’re skinny dipping in mixed company I wouldn’t scream “Spoon Casting Clinic!!!” just to be cute.

No no no…not a good idea. 

After all, some people actually believe spooning leads to forking! Oh good heavens. People, pah-lease…aren’t we just here to catch fish?

A few weeks ago Tim Romano wrote a post on his FlyTalk blog titled Women In Fly Fishing. Tim and I had a brief exchange about the questions he posed in the piece:

“Ladies, are you the sole angler in your circle of friends?”

“Did your mom teach you how to fish?”

“If you don’t fish on a regular basis - why not?”

We agreed it might be an interesting twist if I wrote a response post….oooh, fabulous idea! Sort of like when Kitty Wells sang It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels in response to Hank Thompson’s Wild Side of Life. Overly confident, I was excited to whip up something insightful, sharp and witty.

Just one problem. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

What? I mean, I am a woman. And I fish. I obsess about fishing. I seem particularly well-poised to write about this. But am I a ‘woman in fly fishing’? To tell you the truth, I see myself more as someone who is stumbling through the dark, trying to figure it all out. When it comes to fishing, I’m a work-in-progress.

So let’s just start with Tim’s questions. Yes, I am the only angler in my close circle of girlfriends. Yes, my mom is an avid angler. The reason I don’t fish on a more regular basis? Uh…PTA meetings, homework, sleepovers, bills, clients. Oh, and running around with my friends – most of whom don’t fish.

People ask me all the time why I love to fly fish. Depending on my mood, I might ramble on about the scenery, the escape, the camaraderie, the challenge. The sport of it. The respect of the fish. Blah blah blah. Other times I just smile and shrug my shoulders.

Hell, I don’t know why I love to fly fish. Do you?

Most addicts have to work a 12-step program to understand why they’re hooked. I’m not willing to give up my fishing addiction anytime soon. So without the soul-searching, self-probing insight of rehab, I just continue to muse awkwardly about the myriad of things I love about it.

I can’t speak for all women anglers, but I think I fish for the same reasons a man does. I like big, fat, feisty fish that fight. Native fish with rich colors and lots of energy. I like searching for them in beautiful, clear, skinny water. I like a bent rod. A cool take. I like hungry, dumb fish – until I catch them, and then I want them to be smart and discerning. I like getting them to eat. Picking the right fly. Even better if it’s dry and small.

I don’t see a gender gap at the core of fly fishing. Hell, the fish don’t know I’m a girl. But there are palpable differences for women in the experiences that surround the sport. Most are so harmless, they really don’t bear mention. But just for kicks, what do ya say we take a look at a few?

For example, the Flora & Fauna lessons. When you are a woman fishing with a male guide you don’t know very well, he will almost always cover you up in the nature speeches. Now I love an osprey’s nest as much as the next guy, but I really just want to look for fish. And maybe gossip a little.

A friend of mine had the opportunity to guide Justice Sandra Day O’Connor on the Flathead last summer. Getting into the groove of the day, he offered some fun facts about the mountain range in the background. She responded politely but firmly, “I don’t have a lot of time to fish out here so I don’t need the nature tour. Let’s just find the fish and see what they’re eating.”

Right on Sandy! I like your style darlin.

I’ve met the most wonderful friends in Montana over the years. Men, women, guides, anglers, shop owners, café owners. Some fish. Some don’t. It’s a wonderful community and I am so lucky they welcome me with open arms year after year. And most of the anglers that pass through this summertime fishing town are happy, positive and kind. After all, they’re on vacation doing what they love.

Some of them are just tickled to death to stumble upon a female angler on the banks of the river. Apparently it’s even more exciting than finding an osprey’s nest. If I had a dime for the number of times I’ve heard, “Man I’d like to get you in the front of my boat!” Hardee-har-har. They’re just having fun, I can tell pretty quickly if they’re being nice or being an ass.

A few are flat-out incensed by my presence and ask, “What exactly are you doing here?” If I say I’m just out to fish, some just ignore me, like I’m not supposed to be crashing their boys trip by eating in the same restaurant. Others don’t believe me. They’ll start testing me with condescending questions that I know they know the answers to. “What kind of fish are in this river? What are you catching them on? A hopper? What’s a hopper? Do we get to eat these fish?”

The good news is I have no ego that drives me to respond to any of this banter. It is interesting that they go to such lengths to start a conversation with me, just to be rude. I suppose it’s the middle-aged-man’s version of pulling my pigtails in class. But I don’t care if they think I’m clueless, I’m not competitive. I pretty much thrive on a healthy mix of high standards and low expectations.

I do, however, get annoyed when they bring it to the river. I go out of my way to give other boats plenty of space. Plenty! But some guys see me rowing my mother and my daughter and think our water is fair game. They see three ponytails and have no problem cruising over to low-hole me, while my mother is casting to rising fish off the front of the boat. Now that pisses me off.

Of course I won’t say anything — another difference between men and women. I’m too scared they’d yell back at me.

It’s funny that men are so intrigued by a female angler. I meet a lot of women who fish! I have a few girlfriends in MT who are amazing anglers, some are guides. I love being on the water with them, very chill and lots of laughs. But there are other women who don’t want anything to do with female anglers. They would sooner gnaw off their arm than have a conversation with me about fishing. I think they just like the attention of being a girl in the boys’ club. So they only want to fish with the boys. Talk shop with the boys.

That attitude is insane to me. Never trust a woman who doesn’t have female friends.

But the mildly annoying people in the world of fishing are the exception, not the rule. Over the years, I have met incredible people and dear, dear friends. There is a passion and a generosity of spirit in this sport that transcends all else. I marvel at how much I’ve learned from anglers that hail from so many different places – people I wouldn’t have known otherwise.

After my divorce, fishing became a mirror of my quickly-changing life. At first it reflected a harsh blinding light, bouncing right off the water and straight into my eyes. I realized how much my ex-husband had handled on these fishing trips. I’d been doing this a long time but I didn’t have a clue. So I started asking more questions. Tying my own knots. Wading out in the water by myself.

I began wandering around the flyshop parking lot looking for an open spot in someone’s boat. Like I was in a ski lift line shouting, “Single!” That got me in a few pickles so I had to learn to row myself. I’m inherently quite lazy, so I’ve surprised myself at the lengths I will go to. I will get up early, stay on the water til dark, bring all the beer, sleep in a tent, drive near, drive far, trade in frequent flyer miles, tap out my vacation days, quit my job….anything it takes to fish.

To tell you the truth, very little about this sport has come naturally to me. I soak up information wherever I can. I eavesdrop in flyshops. I pay attention when guides compare notes about their day on the water. I scour your blogs and read your magazine articles. I am so incredibly grateful for each and every one of you who has reached out, welcomed me to the conversation, or even just allowed me to listen-in for a spell.

I’ve always had a ton of girlfriends who’ve been like sisters to me. But fly fishing has given me a whole mess of brothers! I love it. Brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and cousins. Maudlin as it may sound, it’s become an extended family. Like a good ole honky tonk bar, you never know if you’re going to be greeted with a grunt or smile. But the beer is cold, the jukebox is on and the neon sign lures you in just the same.

I suppose that is why I love to fly fish. To be a part of this wonderful, diverse, dysfunctional, passionate family. I didn’t plan on delivering such a sappy response to Tim’s blogpost, but what can I say? I guess I’m just a girlie girl at heart. A girlie girl who loves to fish.

And on a good day…a girlie girl who can really stick ‘em.