That's My Story

THE NEW AGE ANGLER

Originally Published in Western Outdoor News Magazine Fall 2009

There are many things in life I want to try before I push up the daisies. There are many things I now realize I will never get to do. And there are a ton of things I wish I could be good at and I know I will never be. I have a great respect for those who can do those things. I have an even greater admiration for those who can master it.

Certain things in life I have given up on. I will never be a professional football player. I guess I will never climb Everest or play lead guitar in a rock band in front of thousands of screaming fans. I can’t even grow back my hair. Cross those off the list.

I don’t’ look good in white shorts and I will never master tennis or come close. Golf is another. I used to tell folks I once shot a 65…but that was only because my ball went through the windmill over the bridge and into the clown’s mouth!

Another of those is flyfishing.

I am a flyfishing hack. I have tried it. I have diligently taken lessons from professionals. I have put in my time trying to put little puffs of fuzz in Montana riffles. I have dutifully given it my best shot in the Sierras and float- tubed Wyoming. Yea, I’ve caught a couple of fish…the stupid ones and the hungry ones.

Where I have fished in those pristine waters, those fish have seen the best of the best. They know a fraud when they hear me tripping in my waders and tumbling into the current or hear my curse (in two languages!) as I spend my time untangling my flyline from overhead branches or wrapped around my ankles! I’ve hooked myself in my fancy-pants flyfishing vest more than I’ve hooked a fish.

Give me a live worm or a salmon egg and I’m deadly. With a flyrod, fish need have no fear!

So there I am in Baja, watching from my boat. Thirty yards away, I can hear it. The reel isn’t screaming. It’s more like a loud hissing whirr…the sound well-lubricated gears make when they’re doing what they’re supposed to be doing inside a well-made machine.

And the rod. Long and whippy in the classic “high stick” position is fully loaded and almost parabolically bent in half. The butt is straight up, but the tip is almost touching the water straight down and nano-seconds from snapping.

There are times in an angler’s fishing career when no amount of technology, experience, guile or strength will make one iota of a difference. And all you can do is hang on…and grin.

This angler, standing tall in the bow with legs braced and elbows pulled close is definitely holding on. The strain in evident in the arms. It is evident in the dark “V” sweat -stain on the back of his khaki outfitters shirts and in the underarm circles enhanced by the smelter-heat of the mid-day Baja sunshine.

But he takes one moment to breathe and look over his shoulder. He shakes off the strain in a free hand and hangs onto the rod with the other.

I’m caught watching and he raises his fist to pump the air triumphantly and gives me a thumbs up. And a grin. As the white glare reflects off the water illuminating the shade under his wide-brimmed hat. It’s definitely a grin.

I’ve already caught and released 7 fish on the day and kept one. I’ve seen this guy make scores of casts all morning and this is his first hookup of the day. Whether it’s a big jack, a needlefish or a hefty roosterfish, I wanna see what he has.

Whatever it is, this Joe deserves it. He worked hard for it on a typical blast-furnace Baja day where anglers pray for a breeze or purposely tell their captain to troll to get the heavy heated air moving.

I see more and more of these flyfishers on the water. And I think it’s a sign of the times and a changing attitude as well as a changing visitor now coming to the Baja.

Originally pioneered by folks such as WON’s own Gary Graham on the East Cape, Grant Hartman in Cabo San Lucas and Pam Bolles in Loreto, what looked like a passing aberration or subset to conventional fishing more than a decade ago, has built a growing following that’s not so easily dismissed despite an arguably shaky start.

To some, it was almost as if the sheepherders had moved in among the cattlemen. Cocked eyebrows and shrugged shoulders greeted many flyfishers at first. Sometimes, it was open animosity from local crews and visiting sportfishermen alike.

Baja is not, “A River Runs Through It!” There’s no gentle creeks and towering John Muir Trail-type pine trees around. This ain’t Walden Pond, amigo.

I mean, this was the land of Ray Cannon, Charlie Davis, Neil Kelly, Fred Hoctor and old Johnny Steinbeck for criminy-sakes! Salty, beer-drinking, tequila swilling boys who wore big staw life-guard hats, t-shirts emblazoned with , “Fillet and Release!” and wore shorts with sewn-in beer holders were the norm. That’s my daddy’s Baja and they went to battle with big artillery. Big fish. Big rods.

These aren’t rainbow trout or even silver salmon swimming just beyond the beach breakers. Flyfishing was for foo-foo fishermen, wasn’ it? It was the sport for fussy rich guys or guys who had accents and smoked pipes, wasn’it? Flyfishermen read the Wall Street Journal and quoted Chaucer. Baja guys quoted Jimmy Buffett and lines from Saturday Night Live and Schwartzenegger movies.

Flyfishers even looked funny and had funny equipment. Those little rods and reels cost as much as a mortgage payment..each! Because of the long-billed baseball-style hats, some Mexican captains called them, “cabezas de pato” (Duck heads). They wore color-coordinated expensive catalog clothes from L.L. Bean and pants from Bass Pro Shops.! (Eyes roll) They want to hook tuna and dorado and (smirks) marlin and sailfish? Bring it on. Have at it. This’ll be good fun!

And indeed it has been fun. And these new anglers are enjoying the heck out of their Baja experiences. Good on them. I grudgingly give them and their guides their props. They work hard at it and earn every biter they get! And I’m seeing more and more reasons why this has become such an attractive way to go.

Granted, they are still some of the fussiest anglers I see. I don’t mean that in a bad way. But, it’s a particular sport. It’s a precision sport. It’s a demanding sport. And many of the flyfishers tend to be affluent…retirees professionals, doctors, lawyers, CEO’s, whose desire to master the sport is an extension of the type of drive often reflected in their careers. Sure, it can be an expensive sport, but as I have personally found out, you don’t just walk out to the water and become a “flyfisher” any more than you become a heart surgeon, CEO or a golfer just because you have the right tools.

But with each passing season, I see it becoming more of a sport of the masses too. And that’s good to see..and maybe good for Baja too on so many levels.

Pragmatically, take a look at the gear. In an age when airlines are getting awfully sticky with weight restrictions and charging for every extra little pound, rods can it in little tubes the size of map-cases in your overhead bin. No need to haul around giant PVC pipes stuffed with sticks anymore.

That heavy tackle box stuffed with throwing iron, lead, weighted trolling feathers and what-not? Leave it home. This is called FLYfishing! By definition, (sorry for the oversimplification) but you’re tossing bits of fluff through the air. You won’t need to hire Sherpas to schlepp your stuff.

And that goes for the days of the huge ice chest as well. Most of the flyfishers release their fish. In fact, I had one flyfishing client sheepishly ask me if it was OK to keep one small dorado for dinner! He was so used to releasing all his fish he felt it necessary to ask permission to keep one. Not to take home. It was to eat in the hotel that night.

Admittedly, that was really refreshing. In a time when I’m usually asked how many POUNDS of fish can be taken home and see guys almost jumping on their ice chests to cram in one more filet, I have no problem with putting fish back in the water.

And that’s perhaps the bigger picture with the flyfishers. And maybe a lesson to all of us too. In an age when our fisheries, our waters, our resources in Mexico and everywhere else are sorely taxed, I like that fact that flyfishers also like to “put fish back.” C.P.R…”catch..photo..release.” It a nice creedo.

I like taking fish as much as the next guy. Don’t get me wrong. I grew up like many of my contemporaries dreaming of bloody decks and tails sticking out of fish boxes and ice chests too small for the catch. A successful day was measured in numbers of carcasses in the bag or box. I won’t deny that it still is a measure of a good day.

But I acknowledge that it doesn’t have to be.

Like the angler earlier in this piece, I’ve seen them whip the waters with those long rods hour-after-hour. I have neither the patience nor stamina for that. I WANNA GET BIT! But, in the same way I can view a golfer or doctor, I gotta give kudos to someone who puts in that kind of time.

I encounter angler after angler who come off their boats and tell me they got 5…6…7 fish and it was a “so-so” or “ho-hum” day. You’d have thought someone stole their bicycles judging by their faces.

Maybe the caught all the fish in 15 minutes and the rest of the day was dull. Maybe they caught all the fish on lures instead of bait or they just dinked and scratched all day for 2 hours of boredom punctuated by 5 minutes of hookup time, then back to boredom.

On the other hand, the flyfisher is pumping his fist victoriously in the air after spending an hour methodically casting to a breezing roosterfish time after time after time. He’s giving high-fives to the fish gods when finally, the rooster turns…and charges…and inhales. FISH ON!!!

It makes the victory of the hookup all that much sweeter!

I may have to give this flyfishing thing another go.

That’s my story. If you ever need to reach me, I’m at riplipboy@aol.com