Flylines

The phenomenon of the Salmonfly is one of nature's small miracles. In early spring, the native rainbows are just coming out of the spawn. They need food and energy to bring them back to full fitness.

Low and behold what does the river provide? Great big insects that are nothing more than walking, crawling gobs of living protein - a perfect food source for the fish. The bugs seem to hurl themselves deliberately onto the water. As the fish feed, they become stronger and brighter while you watch.

A setup like this - near perfect conditions for the fishes' needs - always brings out the biggest and the best the river has to offer. Salmonfly is big fish season. However, even in the midst of a hatch like this, there are, at times, frustrations for anglers.

As Rudy, one of my recent guests put it, "This thing still takes some skill."

Poor Rudy, a rank beginner, had a tough day. He had to suffer the ignominy of traveling with a fishing partner like Barry who is a seasoned veteran. By noon Barry, who fishes the river regularly, had declared it his best day ever on the Deschutes. He banked four really large fish along with who knows how many other smaller ones. He still had the rest of the day to take it way over the top.

Rudy, on the other hand, suffered one frustration after another. His day was loaded with missed strikes and blown opportunities. His attitude was good. He recognized his own limitations. Still he couldn't help looking over the shoulder and asking, "How do you do that?" as his partner raked in yet another hard-fighting native rainbow.

From the guide's perspective, it was easy to see the difference. They had the same flies; their leaders where similar. They also had equal opportunity at the trout; I made sure they fished the best possible holding water.

The difference was that Barry responded to the river with his line and fly while Rudy did not.

I call Rudy's style, "fishing out of the belly." He cast and then became fixated on the fly. The rod pointed out level toward it. Sometimes, if the cast was off to the side, there was a bit of follow down, pointing the rod tip at the fly as it moved with the current, but never was there any response to the line on the water.

Rudy made no attempt to lift the rod tip to control slack, either by tilting the rod up or by raising his hands. He simply held the rod comfortably out in front of himself all the time. His hands never moved out of stomach area except to cast.

Barry, on the other hand, started working the rod the minute the fly touched the water. He continuously raised and lowered the rod tip, moving it left and right with the vagaries of the river current. As excess slack was created, his rod tip moved up. Sometimes he had his hands clear over his head with the rod pointed high. At other times he stretched to the side as far out as his arms could reach to get that last inch of drift.

Barry was responding to the both the fly and the line. It's a little like walking a tight-rope, suspended on the fine line between slack and control.

The goal is to maintain enough slack in the line so that there is no effect on the fly from the line or leader - yet at the same time you need to be close enough to the fly, and have enough of the slack lifted out, so that when a fish does take you can make a quick accurate response.

As Rudy discovered, this type of control is vitally important; it is often the difference between success and failure.

To become a better fisherman you must become a good judge of the balance between slack and control, but it is not that difficult to learn. The river teaches it once you understand the goal. Simply get your hands out from your belly and use the reach of the rod for control. You will start seeing better results almost immediately. More and bigger fish will be brought to hand as your skill grows.