The first time I went fly fishing with my father, I immediately hooked him through the finger. Neither of us knew what we were doing (obviously), and my first attempt at a cast ended with this minor bloodshed. We worked the hook out, after a bit, though, and no major damage was done.
We persevered with the fishing expedition—moving together unsteadily into this unknown realm of fly fishing, just as we waded forward into the cold, sun-striped, leaf-fringed, trout-haunted pools of the creek. We didn’t catch a single fish that outing. Or the next. Or the next.
Throughout that summer, perched inside a rusting red F-150, we wound our way on dusty country roads through the valleys and over the ridges of the Driftless Area in search of trout streams, most of which turned out to be overgrown, hopeless affairs. And when we did find suitable places to fish, the trout remained elusive….