May 2007

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Fishing mojo has been on my mind lately. In terms of fish caught I’ve had a terrible start to the season. I’ve fished incredibly passively, expecting fish to throw themselves at my line. This seems like the anti-thesis of fly fishing: you should have to hunt down the trout and earn their takes. It’s all about the mind of course. Sometimes, and it pains me to say it, the mind is not right for fishing.


Yesterday I headed down to a favourite spot hoping to dig deep and find some mojo. I took the unusual step of stringing up my 8′ 3 weight rod instead of the shotgun Sage. My elbow has basically been buggered by my casting practice this winter so light rods are now mandatory. It’s nice to find blessings in every curse, and rediscovering a love of fishing light is surly a worthy blessing from my painful curse. It’s a totally different feeling from using the 5 weight, one where the rod seems much more like an extension of the arm and the casts quietly swish past with only a thought. I actually enjoyed fishing again, and came pretty close to the place on several occasions.

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It’s a small stream, and the water is low. Everywhere parr dart amongst the streamer weed and shoals of fry waft forward and back in the current. Small fish water. A few early grannom buzz along upstream, tempting thoughts of a rise. The odd olive and clouds of gnats drift in the soft breeze. It’s spring and the warm sun and cool air soak deep.

A bigger pool. A bigger tree, half in half out of the water. Creeping up, little casts and slow breaths. A pause which lingers for a gaze into the deepest crease. Then you see him. A brown submarine drifting slowly, slowly up and into the very eye. Three, four, five, the weight matters not for he will not be landed today. The floppy four weight quivering in your right fist feels obsurd.
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