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The final bell rang on our early release Wednesday at school and I made a beeline straight to my Tacoma, where my fly rod and waders waited patiently in the warming March sun. I threw my waders on in a hurry and hit the road from school to the pond shown in the map below.
Five minutes later, I was in the parking lot and jogging down the stairs to the water. I only had about an hour to fish, with work and homework waiting the moment I wrapped up.
Kicking Off the Rust
A long winter of tying flies was finally over, and it was time to whip my cast, my gear, and my brain back into season shape. The wind — or "The W," as my friends make fun of me for superstitiously calling it — was low, and the pond was quiet, interrupted only by the distant hum of motors, planes overhead, and the Sandwich sailing team.
Aircraft like this one are a common, but always welcome sight when fishing this close to the local Air Base.
After several trips where I'd been frustrated with what I so kindly called a "$400 rod and a $4 cast," I forced myself to relax and let go of the mentality of shooting a giant streamer 80 feet on my Sage 6wt. The goal was simply getting my woolly bugger in front of fish — whether that was 50 feet out or 15 feet. That mindset shift seemed to help. The loops unfurled nicely, and morale was high despite the cold.
This fly would be the one to get the job done later in this trip.
The Standard Routine
I fell into my usual routine: walk as far down the beach as I needed to until there was no one to crowd my back cast or interrupt my serenity. From each spot, I'd take anywhere from 3 to 15 casts before marching another first-down's worth of yards down the bank. And finally, as the March sun warmed the water just as it had warmed my waders, a trout decided it was warm enough to grab a bite.
The Rust is Off
I stripped my black woolly bugger in hand over hand — two short strips and a pause. Again. Again. Again. But about eight pauses into the retrieve, I couldn't pull any further, and it hit me: I have a fish! I raised the rod up from under my arm and began stripping the fish in as I moved toward the bank.
A healthy rainbow trout had decided to be my first fish of the calendar year. I froze my hands reaching down to grab this beautiful fish and work the fly from its mouth as it tried its hardest to skitter back to the depths. After a safe release and a quick photo, the trout swam off strong — and somehow, my excitement for the upcoming season grew even more.
This beautiful trout became my first of the year. The first of the year is always special.
Back to Work
I got back to casting, and the rush of landing that first fish took a few overly excited casts to wear off. I continued my march down the bank, presenting to every likely-looking lie my mind could spot, but no other fish was willing to eat. The sun continued to move west, and so did I — all the way to the final point of my regular spring adventures at this pond.
My casts rolled out onto the surface and my line sank to the depths, where no trout was willing to cooperate. Freezing fingers, a packed afternoon ahead, and a looming rise in "The W" signaled the end of the trip — but I got back in my truck with a smile on my face and a JD Clayton song happily playing in my head. A job well done.
Advice From a High Schooler
If I learned anything from this trip, especially for the fly guys— other than catching fish is awesome — it's this: don't worry about trying to cast, just cast. If it ain't broke, don't fix it.
As I told my dad when he got home from work that evening, "It doesn't matter if you're the best caster in the world if you don't know how to put a fly in front of the fish."
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