Fishing Yoga
Ron said he wouldn’t fish with me anymore unless I took yoga. My winter fishing preparations usually amount to tying flies - Adams, Montreal Whores, Pheasant Tails, Sparkle Pupae, Stimulators and Shuefelt Specials - fishing flies.
The first mention of anyone catching a fish on an artificial fly came from Claudius Aelianus around 200 AD. He heard of this marvel taking place in Macedonia, but never saw it. He was sure enough of his sources, that he included the tale in a compendium of natural curiosities. The fly imitated was the Hipporus which swarmed and hovered over streams. Hipporus wasn’t a pattern that Carrie Stevens tied in the last century here in Maine. Her Gray Ghosts, tied without a vice, were beautiful and are still productive.
So why isn’t tying up a winter’s worth of flies enough preparation for Ron? I always give him some. It’s because he’s getting old. He’s worried that the extra sixty five pounds that I carry around is more than his replacement knee can tolerate. He says I don’t get around in the stream with the grace and agility that I once did. Fair enough. I’m not some long legged wading bird. Sooner or later there’s going to be a disaster and he’d like it to be later so as to not to interfere with his fishing.
If one of us goes down we have discussed how big an effort at a rescue is reasonably to be expected. Lugging a body very far is out of the question. Dying in some remote trout stream seems a tolerable final resting place. We have however made some safety concessions. We both now carry a collapsible wading staff. Even a Great Blue Heron would feel safer with a wading staff. We try to stay in sight of each other so there’s not as much whistling, shouting, and wondering at the end of a day before we head for the Bronco, the Red Sox on the radio, and the road back to Belfast. And now there’s yoga.
Our yoga teacher is as thin and supple as a four weight Thomas bamboo rod. Only after class will those that know me well laugh at the fat guy in the back. They ask what possessed me. Of course, Ron is there too and knows the history behind my new interest. Yoga’s focus on present moment awareness shares ground with good fishing, but it’s really agility that I’m after. I may never be able to sit cross legged with the soles of my feet resting on my thighs, but I’m going to be ready to fish on opening day.
There’s a sign on the Telos Road bridge where it crosses the West Branch, that warns against loitering. An amazing cataract rushes down stream there and it’s hard not to stop for just a peek. If you happen to see a fisherman serenely perched on two rocks midstream in the warrior pose it’s probably me. If there’s a beat up blue ’86 Bronco nearby you can be sure of it.