The hour passed with only a few hits to show for my efforts. The sun broke out and warmed the air. The water was crystal, displaying everything it had to offer as the sun was in perfect position to avoid any glare on the surface. A brilliant, blue sky stretched overhead filled with herrings swooping all around. The remaining red, orange and yellow leaves sharply detailed the river canyon. For the first time, I noticed stone flies and nymphs inhabiting the water. Fly fishing was making better sense now that I was observing this natural aquarium. I was ready to think like a true angler. With the sun shining bright and the air crystal clear, I stepped out of the water to cut my egg and arranged an orange stone fly and dropped a silver mig. Fifteen minutes later, I was back in the water (I'm not an efficient knot tyer) feeling confident in my presentation. I had tight loops in my back cast with my line landing forty-five degrees from my rod tip. Between casts and mends, I took breaks to absorb the beauty around me.
The morning swept by and suddenly I only had thirty-five minutes left to fish. Feeling pressure of a fish-less day, I began to work too hard, and by 10:40AM, I was desperate. I had to catch a fish. Each cast extended reached farther upstream than the time before, extending another foot with each attempt. My line became harder to control, and eventually, I felt my line slap the water behind me. As the cast came forward, I saw my line flutter in the air with only my pink thing-a-ma-bob remaining. My watch read 10:58AM. I had to go. Fly fishing in Cotter was over. I got back to shore to find two herrings watching over my gear and squawked as they flew away. Disappointed in the outcome of my day, I walked back to shower and pack. I would be lying if I said that it did not matter that I did not catch a fish, but I still think those twenty-four hours in Cotter became the highlight of my trip.
I camped in two national parks, ate barbecue in KC and Memphis, tailgated at an Ole Miss game (they lost to Arkansas due to a miracle fourth down play on November 8th) and began a new chapter of my life in Winston-Salem, NC. All of which was enjoyable but without fly fishing, there would be no Arkansas. No accidental fly fishing story. The best memories and people I met happened unplanned, by luck.
2015 had me move from Arizona to Montana, camp in Glacier, Yellowstone, The Tetons, Mt. Rainier, The Badlands, and The Great Smoky Mountains National Parks. I stopped in fly shops in Hood River, OR; Coeur d'Alene, ID; Bozeman, MT; Jackson, WY and Cotter, AR. I fished nearly all of those waters. I visited 16 new states and met countless people through fly fishing this year and I cannot believe the kindness of these people. The story was the same no matter the location. Hood River had excellent, one-on-one customer service when trying on footwear. Bozeman took me out back of the store to teach me how to roll-cast when I asked how to fish the smaller creeks. Each shop offered generosity by throwing in an extra fly, tippet or indicator to further my foundation in the sport. Everyone wanted me to succeed. I started fly fishing for the sport, to catch fish, but I will continue to fly fish because of the people. Bob Dylan was right in regards to how people speak their minds too loud or too much or how rudeness goes unapologetic. But, Bob Dylan did not fly fish. He passed by the rest of us. I discovered a group of people much kinder, more nurturing and more charitable than anyone Dylan wrote about in Highway 61 and it was all by accident. I hope writing this story is just the first step in paying forward all the kindness bestowed upon me this year. Fly fishing now fuels the desire to continue traveling. My fly rod and the road are now tied together. I cannot wait to discover what 2016 holds. For there is so much water and so much more traveling to be done.