There were no such things as Atria, Pong (that’s Xbox, Play Station for you youngsters), cable TV or Internet to occupy my free time in my youth. Of course as most of you did way back when- I walked up hill both ways to and from school.  Most of my free time was spent hunting or fishing with one of my uncle’s.  I would consume outdoor magazines when I was a lad of 13 years.  I eventually subscribed to one or two of them as savings would allow, devouring each copy cover to cover.  I recall reading the fly fishing stories and seeing pictures of the coveted trout in the clear, cold streams across the United States.  I wanted to be that person in those magazine pictures, fly fishing for trout in pretty places; however, that was not an option for me growing up in Oklahoma and Texas (there – I said it – Texas). Instead, I would often day dream about fly fishing the warm waters’ found locally (called ponds in Oklahoma and tanks in Texas – don’t ask me why): anything to have the feeling of those magical magazines. Unknown to me, a fly rod was in my future.

My grandmother, Opal Granny; rode a bus (that woman went all over the country on those darn slow buses) to Phoenix to spend some time with my aunt. Opal Granny had never flown in an airplane and wanted someone to fly back to Oklahoma with her. Lucky me, I got to fly to Phoenix by myself and accompany her back. So at the important age of 14, I spent a week in Phoenix, AZ.  

While in Phoenix, I somehow talked my aunt into stopping by a fishing store. In that store, I held in my hands, the life changing rod. A light green, smoothly finished Garcia fly rod, with lots of guides, and priced less than $20! More than an object in a window, that rod had the potential to make dreams come true for me. The store even had a plastic rod tube in which I could carry the rod back to Oklahoma with me. There was a lot of day dreaming that week. I became the fly fisherman in the magazine stories, catching trout after trout in those cold, clear Rocky Mountain streams. If I only had the money (this was 1972 – back when money did not grow on trees), that rod would be mine.

Thursday evening found my grandmother, my aunt and uncle, and me at the dog racing track. Those dogs were fast! No matter how fast they ran, they still could not catch that rabbit (I wondered if I could nail the rabbit with a shotgun). My grandmother gave me the dog racing stats book and had me pick the dogs.  At 14, I didn’t know everything (that would come a few years later at 16, just ask my "don't know anything" parents).  So, I dutifully made the choices on a scientific basis using the Any-Meany-Minnie-Mo method. Opal Granny supplied the two bucks, and my uncle placed the bet. I guess the stars and planets where aligned, because we “hit” a $40 payout on one of the races. The fly fishing gods bestowed their blessings indeed! My grandmother, bless her heart, gave me half of the winnings since I had been delegated the task of picking the dogs. Yes, you can guess where my share went!

Friday morning, my aunt and I made a trip to the fishing store where the transformation of many dreams became reality. I was the kid gleaming with a new fly rod and carrying tube. I felt like a “fly fisherman” (I was walking proud – no, better make that strutting, when my feet touched the ground). The week in Arizona came to an end Friday afternoon.

Like school kids waiting for the first day of school; dread, fear, anxiety, and excitement all had a time dancing with Opal Granny’s emotions that day. We boarded the plane and I was sitting by the window. While taking in all the sights, I would notice Opal Granny’s hand make a quick trip from her purse to her face then back to her purse. It was a short trip. She was all of five feet tall and has the big, black purse in her lap. This action was occurring and reoccurring while we were still at the gate.  Finally, our plane was pushed back, we taxied to the runway, the engines roared and we sped down the runway on our way to the sky.

I was clueless as to how fast the plane was going, but was in total awe of how quickly the runway lights, bushes, and other earth bound objects outside the window went by and so badly wanted my grandmother to witness this new found coolness. Looking at her, I noticed she had a stern face; with all the muscles in her face tensed up, jaws tight, staring at the back of the seat in front of her. Her knuckles were absent of color as she had put death grips on the arm rests of her seat.

I stated, “Opal Granny look out the window.”

Without a blink, turn, or as much of a twitch to acknowledge my existence, she exclaimed a loud and unforgettable – “NO!”

 I turned back to gaze outside the window. I thought to myself, “That woman is totally terrified.”  As we flew, I would see her hand remake the purse-face-purse trip. Come to find out, she had a purse size bottle of “medicine” to help clam her nerves. By the time we got to Dallas, she had finished the “medicine” (aka JD), had blood back in her knuckles, and all in all seemed pretty happy. She even looked out the window at the housetops as we started to land. She never did fly again, buses only for that woman.

The fly rod made it home without a scratch, however; I think Opal Granny was scarred for life. My next mission was to get my hands on a reel and line. Over time I was able to order a Martin automatic reel (I’m reaching out to all the others who thought they were the way to go), and some forgotten brand of green fly line from the Cabalas catalog. They had been kind enough to send a requested catalog (it was small back then, but had all the necessities for endless day dreaming). When the package completed the long journey from some far away place in Nebraska, it was just like Christmas morning for me. I loaded the line on the reel, used a piece of fishing line for a leader, put my store bought fly on the end, and headed to the nearest pond. Yes, there was no backing on the reel; I was clueless.

This rod was magical! I could catch bluegill in front and behind me. Sometimes not knowing a fish had taken my fly on the “back cast” until I saw it flying through the air on the “forward cast” as it passed by. These cast names are in quotes because I did not know what they were called back then. It was also painfully obvious, that I did not know how to achieve them either. One of the advantages of being young, fearless, and naive allows one to climb the trees to retrieve those costly flies. After days of casting (okay, swinging a stick with a string on the end of it), I became proficient at catching bluegills. Either that or I picked a fly they wanted. Plus, I think they were not too smart (not sure if I can call them dumb – I was the one swinging a stick and string). I did learn to roll cast from one magazine article; thank you unknown author. My roll cast became deadly. It was awesome, all 10 feet of it.

The years that followed became blurred with girls (there was this transition point where hunting and fishing were no longer the main focus, for a few years – at least), college, kids, work - life. But, something threw gasoline on the fly fishing candle flame. I decided it was time to improve my casting skills, setting my goals to at least know I had a “fish on!” on my forward cast before sending the fish on a space odyssey. A visit with Dave and Emily Whitlock took my loops from none to some, and helped me keep the fly off the water on the back cast.   Unfortunately, this reduced the number fish I caught (I’m still scathing my head about that one)!

The rest - as they say – is making fly fishing memories.

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