by John O’ Bryan
“Wade in the water. Wade in the water children. Wade in the water, the Lord’s going to trouble the water…” only it wasn’t the Lord it was me. I had waded into the water, and I was troubling it with a vengeance and an eleven-foot switch rod. “I used to be a world class athlete! I have excellent hand-eye coordination!” I screamed at my guide as I flailed the rod back and forth onto the surface of the river, the fly line whipping side to side as the poor fly piled up into a cute little wad of tippet and feathers. There is nothing intuitive or fun about learning to cast a Spey line.
I had watched the dance from a distance and always felt like if I was given a chance, I would be able to fling a line to the far reaches of the universe. It didn’t look that hard. There was a definite rhythm and system for casting with two hands. Most of the people doing it, while seemingly skilled, weren’t the most athletic looking and as I watched them walk back to their cars in their oversized waders, I had a distinct feeling of superiority. I was sure I would be able to cast a fly over that mountain if the coach would just give me the chance. I was an NAIA baseball player after all, and even though I’m closer to 60 than 50, I can still move hand to mouth without poking myself in the eye on most days.
At least that’s what I thought. I stood watching Jared shoot the line out of the tip of the rod with ease and my fingers itched to get the rod into my hands so I could fling the neon thread into the nether gloom and start catching fish. He was talking way too much. “Blah, blah, blah, anchor. Blah, blah, blah, swing.” We were on day four of a six-day float trip down the Grande Ronde and I didn’t have very many days left to catch a steelhead on the swing.
The time for teaching was done. It was now time for action. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I got it. Flip it over there.” I pointed upriver and to the right of me, “and rip it out there” I pointed across the river and reached for the pole. Jared looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “Have you heard even one word I’ve said?” He handed me the rod like he was handing a knife to a little kid who had just told him that his mom always let him play with sharp objects. “Sure. Super T to make an anchor, frisbee the tip and fling with all your might.” I snatched the rod – never call it a pole – from my able guide. I should have paid attention when he took a few purposeful strides out of my “sphere of influence” and covered his head.
I pulled out close to 50 feet of line because there was a beautiful pillow of water I wanted to cast into about halfway across the river. I positioned the head close to the front guide, snapped my tee, placed my anchor and flung, pulling the butt of the pole into my chest. The line made a funny sucking, whipping, zinging noise that I had not heard heretofore and as I waited, expectantly for the line to shoot out of the tip of the rod and across the river the line wrapped around my head and the fly stuck into the side of my neck. I have a stiff neck, but that didn’t keep the fly from digging deep into the tendon that suddenly appears whenever I’m frustrated.
I yanked the fly out of my skin and a little trickle of blood oozed onto my new Orvis shirt. It could have been worse, I thought, as visions of Dan Aykroyd as Julia Child with blood spurting out of his neck filled my mind. I looked over at Jared who was starting to walk my way to help, but I stopped him with a glance. I untangled myself and let the fly dangle in the water, hoping the blood on it would attract something, a shark, a suckerfish, a steelhead, anything really. I pulled out less line this time, really only the shooting head and let the line straighten out downstream so I could flip it upstream to create an anchor, then shoot it across the stream to catch something. I started my motion and the fly landed about 30 feet upstream and was approaching fast. I knew enough to not let the fly slide past, so did the whippy motion as fast as I could. The line shot out of the end, stopped and the fly landed about six feet in front of me.
Time after time after time I tried and for the life of me could not figure it out. I handed the POLE back to my guide and without a word walked to the shore, picked up a spinning rod and started tossing bobber and jig into the stream. I watched Jared out of the corner of my eye as he made cast after cast into the roiling water. It was a thing of beauty. I took out my camera and walked up the hill behind him. I rolled a few hundred pictures as he anchored the perfect loop and shot a few thousand feet of line out into the river time after time. I had just put the viewfinder to my eye for a final few shots when I saw it, a slight lift of his arms the instant before he shot the fly, and I smiled. In that moment, I knew I would finally be able to cast a Spey line.
“Um, Jared? Would you mind if I tried again?” I tried to look as sheepish as possible even though I was vibrating inside. He looked at me as his line swung into the current and kind of turned away like he was protecting his switch rod from an abuser. I had beaten it pretty hard against the surface of the water and I’m sure he was questioning whether to let his baby into the hands of a neanderthal who didn’t know the first thing about how to treat a precision instrument. It was his Stradivarius and I had treated it like a dime store ukulele.
“I can’t afford to have you Life Flighted out if that fly gets lodged somewhere a fly’s not supposed to get lodged in.”
I smiled. “I’ve got helicopter insurance,” I lied. “Besides, I think I’ve got it figured out. Give me one cast and if I fail, I’ll hand the ROD back to you and walk away. Jared considered for a moment.
“If you break it, you buy it?”
“Deal!” I quickly flew into the water and up to his side. My hands were itching to try again. He was in no rush and slowly drew in the line and positioned it perfectly in the guides. When it was perfect, he handed it to me and retreated.
I drew a deep breath and slowly let it out “Concentrate.” I always talk to myself when I’m nervous. “Bottom of the 9th.” I pulled a small bit of line off the reel and held it in my left hand. The line was already trailing straight downstream with just the shooting line extending from the rod tip. “Catcher gives the sign.” I started my motion. “Bases Loaded.” I flipped the rod tip and the fly anchored perfectly upstream and to my right. “Two outs.” I pulled the tip parallel to the water and behind me then up in an arc. Just before it reached its zenith, I lifted my hands and shoulders giving the rod an extra push heavenward. “Fastball on the corner.” I brought my hands down quickly and pulled the butt of the rod into my stomach… and waited for the fly to dig into my neck again. “Strike Three!”
I opened my eyes and watched the line shoot out in a beautiful loop then become perfectly taut as it reached the end of its length. I lowered the rod and the entire length of line laid down nicely onto the water. I WAS SPEY FISHING! In the history of casts, it wasn’t the longest or the most beautiful, but it was a thousand miles if it was a foot and in my eyes, it was a thing of beauty.
I looked over at Jared. His mouth hung open in disbelief, but just for a moment and then he screamed at me like I was his kid who had just hit a home run. “You did it! You did it! Now do it again!” I repeated the motion with the same results, each time pulling a few more feet of line out until I could cast halfway across the river. I was determined to get my fly to a pillow of water fifteen feet farther and in doing so wadded my last cast into a neat little nest of line.
Jared ran through the water to where I was standing. He gave me a huge hug, told me how great that was, then asked for his rod back.
On the last day of the trip I did finally catch a steelhead on the swing. It wasn’t the biggest fish I had ever caught, but it was probably the most satisfying.
