Once upon a time

If you want to be happy all of your life, never make a fly fisher out of your wife.

—Clem Fullerton

Back in the late ‘40s, a very young married couple read a book titled, “Trout,” by an author named Ray Bergman. The beautiful color plates of hundreds of flies, painted by Dr. Edgar Burke, each with an intriguing name, inspired them to take up the sport of fly fishing. At that time, both of us were experienced bass fishers, quite used to catching fish on Heddon River Runts, Arbogast Jitter Bugs and Creek Chub Pikie Minnows. Now, we would be exploring an entirely new world of fishing.

It turned out that this journey would take us on a rather bumpy ride. In those days, there was no Federation of Fly Fishers or Trout Unlimited. We knew no one who knew how to use a fly rod, so this would have to be a self-taught experience with the lame leading the blind. Furthermore, Barb soon came to realize that she was a lonely petunia in an onion patch. The sight of a girl wearing baggy waders and casting a fly line was a surprise for male fly fishers. Some were astonished, others a bit bemused and a few downright hostile. A friend once asked, “Why do you bring her along?” The answer should have been obvious. She thoroughly enjoys fishing.

Gradually, we both learned to cast a short distance and eventually caught our first trout on a fly. I always considered it a good omen that Barb’s came from the fabled Beaverkill at Chilloway Pool. A time honored pattern, the Royal Coachman, was the fly she was using.

In typical male fashion, I have always felt that I “knew” more about fly fishing than Barbara Ann. However, there have been an embarrassing number of times when she has caught either the first trout, the most, or the largest trout of the day. These instances baffle me. I am aware of all the latest techniques, the hot new flies and dozens of theories on the proper way to present a fly to a trout. I am a far bolder wader, often risking a dunking in order to place the fly in front of a trout. Yet, quite often at the end of the day, it turns out that the lady is holding a hand of aces over kings. Just last week, we fished the East Branch of the Delaware in the company of the Graham brothers. Those two fellows are both fish hawks. At dark, we came together to compare notes. Ed, Jim and the Tangler had failed to hook a fish. Barbara Ann had hooked and landed a fifteen-incher and lost a bigger fish after playing it for some 20 seconds. It so happened that she and I were fishing one rod, taking 15-minute turns. She was using the exact same fly that I was, a yellow-bodied, Mike Bachkosky “Unusual.” When I presented that fly to the fish, they ignored it. When she placed it on the water, the fish dined with gusto. Her good fortune is inexplicable.

On Saturday, June 24, the lads and lassies of the Upper Delaware Chapter went on a group fishing outing after their business meeting. It would not be prudent for me to mention the names of the other fellows who participated. Among the ladies present, Karol Sundholm of Eldred caught her first trout on a fly out of Barnhart’s Pool on the Beaverkill. Yes, the fish was only seven inches long but it had spots on it and that’s what counts. I am forced to report that Barbara Ann managed to find a cross-eyed, dimwitted, half-starved trout that she somehow managed to convince to eat a deer-hair beetle. Shucks, this fish was only 13 inches long. There are lots of trout in the Willowemoc a lot bigger than that. Unfortunately, I was unable to catch one of them. The score at the end of the day was ladies two, gentlemen nothing. Lest you think you detect a bit of rancor in these words, ‘tain’t so. I’ve had the opportunity to fish with a great many guys and dolls. However, there has not been a one that I would rather share a stream with than my lady with the tiny feet who has the luck of a pixilated Irishman. I consider it to be the most fortunate day of my life when I finally caught her in my net. Or, just maybe, it was the other way around.