Steelheaders understand it.
So do guys and gals chasing permit and sometimes mythical stonefly hatches.
Hell, even the local pond can some days bust a fair fly fisher’s chops.
We’ve all been there at some point. The weather’s good, the water’s perfect, the hatch is on and you’re casting like a superhero. Drag free floats down prime holding lanes cast after cast after cast. Or your big streamer lands right on the money (damned nearly) every time and that sink tip does so to perfection.
And yet nothing happens.
Zip. Nada. Diddlysquat.
Respecting that all fly fishers are damned unique individuals, most of us in this position will respond with an array of remarkably similar behaviors.
We’ll change flies. (Some of us will cycle through the box, others will change just once or twice during the drought.)
We’ll replace tippet, move upstream, move downstream, switch out leaders, change positions in the boat, bitch at the guide / friend / spouse at the oars, change to nymphs / dries / streamers, drink another beer, stop to pee, throw rocks, pout, eat that sandwich, take a nap, drink another beer or drag out the camera.
Some days, no matter what magic incantation you chant, the fish don’t come.
Twenty years ago, occasionally a skunk day would piss me off. The asshole hiding inside of me would start thinking about the time I should have spent back home with the kids, how much gas and beer money I’d spent on the trip and how much it bugged me that my buddy chews with his mouth open with food dribbling down his chin. Those days, and that particular fishing buddy, are now gone.
Proving that old dogs can learn new tricks, my trusty fishing pack now always contains a camera and a field writing journal. Far from smart phones, computers, traffic and television creativity flourishes. The environs surrounding your fishy water are very likely some of the most inspiring in the neighborhood.
[The book I’m writing now was conceived on the banks of the Firehole on a day when damned picky rainbows were rising to blue winged olives so small my (smallest in the box) size 18 looked like a battleship out there.]
Would we all rather be catching fish on the river? Damn right we would, though going fishless can make for a fine (and creative) day.
