Bowfin fishing can easily be a team sport — the driver and the angler have different roles, but they are constantly communicating, searching, and encouraging. This also means that when something goes wrong, the whole team feels it.
I found a few fish there, too. They were redband and whitefish and bulls, at home in quiet sliding waters, feeding unbothered on a weekday from deep pools as blue as my vintage truck.
A couple of Decembers ago, during an unstructured and very unfishy few days in Scandinavia, I stopped in at a local fly shop. The owner kindly entertained my many questions about the local fisheries, seasons, and techniques. As is custom after aimlessly bothering fly shop employees, I bought a hat. It had an extra-long brim, …
What truly gave me chills was the snap I’d heard as we’d gone down—the give of something that wasn’t supposed to go.
As I gather my line from around the rocks, clean off my deceiver, and start casting into the deep again, I have the feeling that the stop would have been worth it regardless.
There’s an allure to the things we cannot have, one that I’ve found can sour quickly when fishing is involved.
Carp were the first new fishery I “figured out” when I moved to Boston a year ago. As far as chasing local bites go, it’s not the hardest thing in the world.
Angling gives us the privilege of being connected to nature in a unique way, and sometimes it’s an honor to be at its mercy.
For those of us that are drawn to the old signs, a large part of the best we can do is look and wonder.
At their very best, fly shops inspire. I definitely hadn’t come to Copenhagen for fishing, but you can never leave a fly shop empty-handed.