Flylines

Every so often you run onto a fishing story that just has to be told. This one proves the old adage, "sometimes it's better to be lucky than good."

Bob is from Minnesota. Up until our trip, his fishing experience was largely on Pike, Musky, Walleye and Bass. He was accustomed to heavy tackle and heavy tactics. Bob was a bit out of his element, engaging in the graceful art of fly fishing on the Deschutes.

His Minnesota game fish tactics applied to the fly rod was like a bull in a china shop; it had not made for a very successful day. Bob's casting was so over-powered the fly seemed to have a mind of its own. The few fish he had hooked had been roughed up pretty badly. He banged them around in the river until they either broke off or the hook came free.

Bob was good-natured about it and he seemed to be having fun. He was such a nice guy, I really wanted him to be successful.

Toward evening, as the caddis hatch came on strong, I saw my opportunity. I set Bob up in a prime spot and showed him some tactics that were less demanding. Before I left to tend to other guests, I watched him get several good strong hook-ups. He overreacted and pulled the hook out each time. Still I figured this was Bob's spot. I was really confident he was going to get a fish here.

You can imagine my surprise when I came back about a half an hour later and heard he hadn't touched another fish. But, after he cast again with his special heavy-handed style I knew what the problem was. The sharp crack on the back cast told me all I needed to know.

"Bring up your fly," I instructed.

Sure enough, there wasn't anything on the line. He had apparently popped off the fly almost before I was out of sight and fished for a half hour without anything on the line.

Just a few casts after I added a new fly Bob had another take. Heavy-handed as always he overplayed it and the fish was gone. A couple minutes later he had another one; same result. By this point Bob was so excited he started heavy wading - charging out toward the fish without regard for anything.

"That's deep out there," I warned. "You better come on back."

It was already too late. As Bob turned and started back his arms and legs began flailing - a heavy-handed attempt at recovery. He fell with a heavy crash - face first with the waves washing over his back, head and shoulders.

It got a little scary. Though it was only a foot of water Bob would not slow down and just stand up. He charged at it in his Minnesota way and tried to leap to his feet. The river rolled him again and he began somersaulting down the riffle toward deeper water.

I charged out to him, offered a hand, and pulled him free of his predicament.

Throughout all this mess Bob had hung onto the fly rod; as he stood the tip of it was throbbing powerfully. In the fracas a fish had somehow managed to hook itself on his line.

Still dripping wet, Bob reeled it in.

"A least I didn't get skunked," he announced as he displayed his 18-inch rainbow proudly.