Since I’ve had a ton of experience in that area, I got it freed rather easily, slightly repositioned myself and cast again. It felt like a great cast - for me, anyway - but I overshot my target and presented the fly perfectly onto an overhanging willow branch.
With a quick pull I managed to release the stranded fly, only to have it soar violently behind me and lodge into that same tree where my first cast met its fate.
The third cast, however, changed my life.
I had a good feeling there were fish in this particular hole along the bank of upper Rock Creek. I was just below where two channels converge, so the goal was to cast into the riffle and let my streamer drift back along the bank.
I recall thinking there was something different about this cast. For one, it actually landed in the water.
But in watching the fly pass by just below the surface of the water, I thought, “OK, this seems like what should be happening.”
For the first time in the year or so since I picked up the sport of fly-fishing, it was as if I actually knew what I was doing.
The colors of the bug I was using - a Big Horn Bugger from Missoula’s Kingfisher Fly Shop - were similar to the old, gaudy University of Montana copper-and-gold scheme, so it was easy to see. Of course, I was watching intently, desperately hoping a fish would take the hint.
Then the fly disappeared and I felt something pull.
Could it be?
It sure wasn’t a snag. I knew that because I have hooked countless rocks, sticks and branches along numerous streams around western Montana - not to mention my first two casts on this day.
Yes, this was definitely something different.
I pulled back on my rod, the line tightened, and a feeling of exhilaration shot through my body.
It had finally happened.
I had caught my first fish.
“Fish on,” I screamed. “Fish on! Fish on! Woooohoooo, fish on!”
Now, this probably isn’t the best streamside etiquette, but after all the trials and tribulations I had encountered on my quest to catch a fish, my excitement just couldn’t be contained.
Casey Hayes, my fishing buddy who had been on this adventure nearly every step of the way, was some 200 yards downstream and heard the commotion.
“When I heard you yelling, my first thought was that you fell in,” he said, sprinting up the bank. “Since I didn’t see you float by, I knew you must have caught a fish!”
He was almost as excited as I was.
Hayes helped me land the fish, a beautiful brown trout in the 14-inch range. After snapping a few photos, I released the fish back into the water, sat down on a log and cracked open a victory beer.
It was one of the best beers I’ve ever tasted, and by far the most deserved.
While I sat on that log, I thought back on what an incredible journey it had been to catch that first fish.
But in order to fully appreciate the milestone, you need to hear some of the experiences I went through on my quest.
My first memories of fishing are of the Big Hole River, a short drive from my family’s home in Anaconda.
When I was 8 years old, I fondly recall the day my dad bought me a new spin rod with a push-button Zebco reel. He had me all set up; all I had to do was put a maggot on the hook and catch “The Big One.”
I pushed down the button with my thumb, brought it back to cast, and proceeded to fling the whole outfit right out into the middle of the river.
From then on, fishing consisted of my dad catching fish and me reeling them in.
So when I decided to take up fly-fishing in March 2007, I basically had no experience. I had never even held a fly rod, couldn’t tie knots and didn’t know a woolly bugger from wool socks.
But I was bound and determined to learn the sport. I bought a how-to book, a rod, a reel, a pair of boots, some flies and thought - once again - I was ready to catch “The Big One.”
The first time I wondered whether fly-fishing was really my cup of tea was the second time I ventured afield.
Up at the crack of dawn and ready to roll, Hayes and I loaded our gear into his new canoe, which had only touched water once prior to our trip.
I had never been in a canoe before and didn’t really know what to expect. What I did know was that I needed to wear a life jacket. (This would prove to be a good choice.)
Hayes, an experienced outdoorsman, was willing to give a greenhorn his first lesson.
We decided to put in just south of Harpers Lake and paddle down the Clearwater River a few miles, stopping along the way to fish.
Sounded doable.
We were in a hurry to get started, so the canoe was packed hastily. (This would prove to be a bad choice.)
Starting on flat water, Hayes gave me a crash course in paddling, showing me proper technique and a few different strokes. After a few minutes - yes, minutes - we were off.
The canoe was a little unstable, but I didn’t think it was anything I couldn’t handle. In fact, I was gaining more confidence with each stroke.
Then I heard something roaring in the distance.
It’s a little fuzzy, but Hayes said something like, “We’re going to go over a little spillway up here, but it’s not that big of a deal.”
The scene of the Maclean boys shooting the chutes in “A River Runs Through It” flashed in my mind.
We positioned ourselves wide enough so we could find a seam and ride it over the spillway.
That’s what was supposed to happen, anyway.
When we were at the point of no return, I totally panicked, planted my oar firmly into a rock and capsized the canoe.
The next thing I remember was popping out of the river in a state of shock, watching rods, reels, boots, waders, chest packs, my fishing buddy and the empty canoe floating down the Clearwater.
I plodded through the water to the bank and took off in a dead sprint, hoping to get an angle to jump in and retrieve the boat. It’s unbelievably difficult to run in wet clothes, plus I’m quite a bit bigger and not as fast as I used to be. So the canoe kept going.
Hayes, meanwhile, was playing what looked like an outdoors version of “The Price is Right.” He would see gear floating along, quickly judge the value of it, and either swim to it, grab it and chuck it to the bank, or just let it go and hope to find it later.
With this system, he managed to save most of the equipment, including both rods, reels, chest packs and some other pricey items.
The canoe, however, was still bobbing along.
It eventually got wedged in a logjam farther downstream. We got it out of the water, but the damage was done. What just a few minutes earlier was a pristine, straight, beautiful canoe was now a slightly crooked, fully scratched and dinged canoe.
As I walked the three-or-so miles back to my truck at Harpers Lake, I had plenty of time to ponder the aforementioned question of what the heck I was doing and whether this new hobby was worth it.
We didn’t get in any fishing that day, at least for trout, anyway. We were lucky to come away with no injuries and a wild story. I haven’t been in a canoe since.
I kept trying my luck - from streamside vantages - the rest of the summer and fall, to no avail. I tried the Blackfoot River, Rock Creek, the Bitterroot and the Clark Fork. I even ventured to the Clearwater again. I didn’t try the children’s fishing pond at McCormick Park, but it did cross my mind.
No matter where I went, it was the same sad, frustrating story: bad casts, ridiculous wind knots and no fish. Not even a bite.
I think it’s important to note that I’m allergic to fish. I was beginning to think they were allergic to me.
A new fishing season began for me in March, yet the inability to catch a fish remained.
Not even when my boss, Bob Meseroll, an avid angler who has caught fish from Alaska to New Zealand, took me to a self-described “honey hole.” The result was the same: Skunk City.
Then one day in late April, I added yet another chapter to my tale.
I was fishing Rock Creek near the suspension bridge, trying my best, having no luck. So I decided to head to another hole a few miles down the road.
I was reassembling my rod, ready to squeeze in a few casts before the sun set, and noticed the tip was missing.
Think finding a needle in a haystack is tough? Try finding a brown rod tip in the woods at dusk.
Just like the fishing, I had no luck.
That may have been a blessing in disguise. Maybe there was something wrong with my first rod. I sent the remaining three pieces of it back to Orvis and they sent me this year’s upgraded model.
Was my luck was changing?
I think so, because the first time using the new rod, I landed that elusive first fish on just the third cast.
So now I’m flat-out hooked on fishing.
It’s been one crazy thing after another on my quest, but I’ve learned so much: Make sure you have all the pieces to your rod, hold on to it firmly and be more prepared when canoeing.
I’ve also learned - despite all that happened - that fly-fishing is something that I definitely want to keep doing.
Most important, I’ve learned how to be patient and just enjoy being outdoors in Montana. There truly isn’t another place like it, even if I’m sopping wet and chasing a canoe, but especially when a fish finds its way to the end of my line.
I just hope it isn’t a year before I have another story to tell.
John Heaney is a copy editor in the Missoulian sports department. He can be reached at 523-5317 or by e-mail at john.heaney@lee.net.
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