It all began on a crisp fall Saturday morning many years ago. I summoned enough courage to enter my local fly shop, not knowing the difference between a five weight, an elk hair caddis, and a tippet. I entered the shop with my hat pulled down low on my brow trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. The bell attached to the front door made a loud “ding” as I entered, spooking me. The fly shop manager approached me and asked if I was looking for anything special. The conversation went something like this: “I have a good friend that is looking to get into fly fishing and he doesn’t have a lot of money to spend. He needs a good basic entry level set-up and he really doesn’t know a damn thing about this sport. I told him I would help him get set up and my mission today is to walk out of here with what he needs to do a little fly fishing for Ozark trout, but spend as little money as possible. Can you do me right?” The fly shop manager - a dry-witted soul; the type that has conversation for his own benefit and a rather engaging character – was more than willing to help, and to his credit, did not take advantage of me. “Sure”, he said, “we will get your ‘uncle’ all set up. It was your ‘uncle’, wasn’t it?”. “Actually, it was my ‘friend’”, I corrected him. As soon as the words left my lips, I knew I had been busted; exposed for the fraud I was. Posing as an experienced fly fisherman, he had spotted this blatantly obvious beginner and picked me out of the lineup. Guilty, as charged. What he didn’t do, was rub my nose in it. He could have and probably wanted to. He got me set up – affordably and quickly and then “released” me out the front door. Thus, began my journey into the dark and seamy world of fly fishing.
What that fly shop manager knew then, that I didn’t know, was that this sport can become incredibly addictive. An entry level rod? Yeah, right! More like a first hit on the crack pipe. What begins as an innocent foray into a method to provide rest and relaxation to a weary soul, and leave the rat race for a few hours a month, can turn into an obsession, a compulsion, and an addiction of sorts. Crack heads have their dealers. Crackleback addicts have their fly shops. I was hooked, and there was no helping me.
Over the next several years, I would build up my arsenal of weaponry to combat these cold and warm water creatures – 4 weights, 5 weights, 8 weights, and more. They came in different lengths, made from different materials, by different manufacturers. The rods and reels that I needed were always the ones I didn’t have. Nothing could quench my thirst. My line, leaders, and tippets came from every manufacturer, every material, and every size. Waders and boot…boots and wader…vests…chest-packs…fly boxes…you name it. It was never enough. There wasn’t a piece of equipment that I didn’t have. I would stumble discreetly into the fly shop (looking around outside for the private eye that I was certain my wife had hired to track my whereabouts) with pockets full of cash, stocking up on the good stuff. My “dealer” was more than willing to comply. Initially, I bought my flies already tied. I had 10 of each fly, in every color, and all sizes. My boxes were so organized that I was afraid to fish for fear of messing up the “system’ that I had developed. I would eventually move up to tying my own – another addiction, which is a story for another day. When I would leave the fly shop, I would ask my good friend (notice – the manager was now my friend – he couldn’t help but be my friend, I was so pathetic, the needy Crackleback addict) to package everything in a discreet brown bag, neatly tucked away, leaving others to guess its contents. The receipt would be tucked away deep in my wallet, where no-one (not even me) would find it.
It felt like my problem was finally on the verge of destroying me, when I found myself purchasing every gadget known to man. I was buying things that I didn’t even know what it did and damn sure was probably never going to use it (because I didn’t even know what if was for). I had become a fly fishing gadget geek. I knew that if I hadn’t seen it before, it was something that I had to have. I wanted to have the edge when I was fishing. I wanted to be one step ahead of the fish and two steps ahead of my fellow fishermen. No need to worry about the fundamentals when you possess cutting edge technology. I determined that I was either very smart or on the edge of complete delusion.
In an attempt to slow the tide of my habit, I joined forces with a local group of like-minded people – the Ozark Fly Fishers – hoping that I would be able to get things under control. Joining this club only made things worse. I thought this would be a self-help organization of kindred spirits, trying to turn back the clock and find a way out. I prepared myself for the first meeting. In the car on the way to the meeting, I rehearsed, “Hello, my name is Ty and I am a Fly Fisherman…” When I got there, what I found was a very diverse group of dedicated fisher-people that were even crazier than I was. This could be trouble, I thought to myself. Not only did these people have all of the gear and “stuff” that I had and then some, but they had braved bold new worlds that I had never heard of before. I had only experienced the tip of the iceberg. Some of these people actually made their own rods – some from bamboo. This truly was serious business, this fly fishing thing. They tied their own flies (and made up their own designs) out of all kinds of material – including hair off of their dogs (and other miscellaneous house pets). What was I getting myself into? Not only that, but these people fished all over the world – and I mean, all over the world! Weren’t there a lot of fish in our own backyard? Apparently, the fish elsewhere are bigger and better than here and we are determined to go in search of them. Ernest Hemmingway must have been on to something.
Along the way, I have met some of the most incredible people and had some amazing times. Here I am, many years later, with a small fortune invested in fishing gear and stuff (and worth a fortune, I am certain) just as hooked as the day I started. If I had taken the same money and invested in some blue chip stocks or mutual funds, I would probably be worth more than Ross Perot (and could probably run for President, for that matter). It has been a good ride and I have many great memories from this great sport. My biggest day as a fly fisherman was the day I decided to no longer fight the habit, but rather, give in to it. I became free to pursue my “healthy” addiction, without guilt. There are habits and addictions that are a hell of a lot worse (and I have a few of those, too – but please don’t tell anybody) than this great sport and I make no apologies. I only have one fear in life – that when I die, my wife will sell all of my fly fishing gear for what I told her I paid for it. You think about that. See you on the streams. TL
I have developed a theory about life and mankind, an idea that is an oversimplification of a truth, to be sure. But, it is MY theory, and so, it is my story and I am sticking to it.
