Failure is my most loyal companion.
It may seem like I write about failure almost too much, but I can assure you I’m not turning up the dial for the sake of a story — I really am quite miserable at most things.
We used to watch an old timey woodworking show on PBS when I was a kid. The host made intricate furniture and other knickknacks with vintage hand tools. Without fail, he would either screw something up or cut himself in almost every episode. It was comedy gold. The guy wasn’t putting on a show for anybody, he just really was that clumsy. Dad, Dan and I would sit on the couch on Saturday morning rolling with laughter as he bled on his 19th century inspired rocking chair. Failure is always funny, unless someone is getting seriously hurt.
I’ve always struggled to catch trout in this part of Wisconsin. Actually the state as a whole gives me the slip on a regular basis, and I’m not sure why. I’d consider myself an experienced fisherman and have been quite successful with a fly rod in other parts of the country. But for whatever reason I can’t translate that to the rivers around my house. Thus I’ve resorted to combining my fishing ventures with other activities, so I have an excuse when Erin asks if I caught anything.
“Eh, I wasn’t really fishing too hard, I just went so the dogs could get some exercise.”
That’s typically not a complete lie. You’d think it would be the opposite, but there’s a direct correlation between the time since I last caught a trout and my lack of ambition to do so. Longer it’s been, lazier I get.
I headed down to the Kinni on a Friday afternoon a couple weeks ago to run the dogs and decided last minute to bring a rod along (excuse activated). I didn’t even bother to put my waders on, opting instead for my shin-high muck boots. It was one of the first warm days of the year — bright sun, no wind and no one else in the parking lot. As I walked down the trail I decided today was the day I’d quit pussyfooting around and actually fish hard.
“Bright day, bright fly,” I said.
I tied on a flashy olive streamer, figuring the water had warmed enough for the trout to be in attack mode. The muck boots limited my wading ability, but I still had plenty of fishable territory. I tiptoed my way into the river and started swinging the fly through a stretch of shallow ripples that had proven productive in the past.
I fished that run and a slower stretch downstream for about two hours with a few hits, but no fish. My lack of waders became continually more annoying as I tried to reach the undercut bank on the opposite side of the river. I was pushing the boundaries of the muck boots, creeping out further and further into the current until the water was lapping at their tops. Slightly frustrated but impressed with my tightrope wading abilities, I headed upstream and stopped at one last run as afternoon turned to evening.
In this spot the river makes a lazy turn to the south and cuts a deep, dark hole on the western bank. On my side there was a sharp drop off with a trough of deeper water close to the bank, followed by a very shallow sand bar further out into the river. I skirted around the trough using some shallow water just downstream and made my way to the sand bar. Standing in ankle deep water, I started casting into the hole.
No trout materialized, so I worked my way down to the end of the hole, casting where the water shallowed and sped up before entering a long rocky section of mini rapids. At the end of my second or third cast, I got what some hip fly fisherman might call “blown up.”
A swirl of water broke the surface like the jets turning on in a hot tub and I saw a golden brown slab roll over in the middle of it. I’ll say now that the Kinnickinnic River is not known for the size of its trout. This may not mean much coming from the worst fly fisherman on the Kinni, but in half a decade I’ve never caught a fish over 12” on that river. However, I have caught some large brown trout on other rivers. Big browns have a slow, rhythmic, almost methodical headshake. They’re the exact opposite of their spastic rainbow compatriots, and the fight they put up is very recognizable. I could tell instantly this was a trophy-sized fish, one that would’ve been impressive in any river, let alone the Kinni. I’d endured five years of miserable failure at the hands of this abominable stream and it was finally my day — redemption.
He took off upstream for deeper water and I thought, “Do I have my camera?”
Just as the answer, “yes,” popped into my head, he changed his mind, flipped his head down stream and spit the fly out like a bad pistachio.
I couldn’t be mad. Any interaction with a fish that size is special, and even without bringing him to hand that was more action than I’d had on that river in a long time. Plus, failure is always funny right?
I chuckled, turned to shore, walked right into the trough of knee-deep water and filled my muck boots to the brim.
Failure is always funny — in retrospect.
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