Cottage Cheese

Fly Fishing, that most sacred art. To be practiced by only the most privileged anglers. When I was young I imagined it was the domain of men is tweeds and plus fours. Certainly not the purview of clay footed mortals like me. I was a bait fisherman, a meat fisherman through and through. My father never really did fly fish, though he kept a few in his tackle box. He too was a bait man. I never thought I would join the ranks of the initiated. Then one day the fellow who delivered the milk for the restaurant where I worked showed me some trout flies he had bought. I marveled over the tiny things, so small, so perfect. "You're a fly fisherman? " I asked. Taken aback by my tone he replied "Yeah, why?" "Nothing, I just have always wanted to learn. Can you teach me?" It was soon resolved that I would meet him that Saturday in the parking lot of the Volunteer Fire Department in Chezzetcook N.S.

We fished all day in some beautiful local streams. He landed a few beauties. I got nothing. I thrashed the water and spooked the trout for a thousand mile radius. Even if the fish weren't hooked, I was. I am sure that Roderick Haig Brown was rolling in his grave. I had borrowed gear for my first trip. I soon purchased a few items and was given others. I planned my next trip by myself. Armed with five dollars worth of flies from K-Mart I headed for a lake I have favored for some time in the same area as we had fished the week before.

The day was magic. I borrowed my Dad's chest waders, two sizes too small. My feet were cramped and throbbing but I was so enraptured I scarcely noticed. I had a great morning several fish rose to my dry fly but I managed to spook them or snatch the fly from there mouth. In the afternoon I switched to wet flies. I tied on a pattern called a McGinty that imitates a bumble bee as there were lots around. Folks I would like to tell you that my first trout on a fly was taken with the classic cast, the snap of the line with the fly settling on the water. The slow measured stroke of the retrieve. The tug as trout sipped my cunning fly gently offered in the classic fashion you see in early watercolors. Rod arched net proffered. I would like to tell you this good reader, but I cannot. Even the fisherman in me could not polish the lump of coal that was my first victory of man over beast into a diamond. It was rather a comedy of errors that broke the ice for me. Mark you, I was alone and I could have used my poetic licence to paint a prettier picture, but it would probably be revoked.

It happened shortly after lunch. I had an eventful morning and was determined to break the ice. I waded a good distance from shore. I worked the line out swishing it in a great arc over my head. Ten and two was what I had been told, but the line was doing more of a nine and three, slapping the water on each movement of the line, whipping up a foam on the still May waters of the placid lake. Behind me was a huge Birch tree it's majestic limbs stretched out over the lake, reflected in it's crystal waters. I felt my line touch a limb on the back cast. Fearing I had snagged my line I let it drop to the water behind me. Instantly my line went taut. Instinctively I raised my rod tip. A trout broke the water. My pulse raced. I turned and began reeling in line. As I had been mid cast there was a considerable amount of loose line and it was bellied to the water. As my rod shook it wrapped around my rod and the line came to a halt. The fish swam away from shore, toward me. The line went slack. I was going to lose him! I dropped my rod and grabbed the line where it came from the tip. I began to walk toward the fish hauling in line hand over hand. When I had taken up the slack I was delighted to feel the pulse of the fish at the other end of the line. I hauled him in hand over hand and held him proudly. A beauty of fifteen inches about three quarters of a pound. I looked around the lake which was dotted with cottages. No one stirred. I had gotten away with it. My first trout on a fly! Not pretty but hey, who was to know. Well, you, now. I slid him into my creel and retrieved my rod. As the afternoon wore on I got better and so did my score by the end of the day I had caught eight and released five. I had raised and lost quite a few too. My McGinty was just a couple pieces of twisted yarn barely attached to the hook. The more ragged it became the more bites I got.

Sometime later I learned to tie flies. I learned from a book with some advice from tackle shop owners. I am sure I drove some of them crazy with my naive questions. One day in the following spring I was standing in the hallway outside my philosophy class. I had removed a small aluminum fly box from my pocket and was showing my buddy Larry some flies I had tied. Among them were some McGinty pattern. He held the box in his hand turning it to the light as the Professor walked by. He stopped. He held out his hand. Larry passed him the box. He too held the flies to the light. "McGinty's , eh?" "Yes." I replied, "You fish?" "Oh yes my boy , in fact I love this pattern. It works great at the lake where I have my cottage." "Where would that be?" I asked, half expecting him not to tell me. "Big Mill Lake, in Chezzetcook. Do you know it?" "Know it? I replied."I caught my first trout on a fly in that very lake! On that very pattern! It's why I tie them." "There's a deep pool just in front of that huge Birch tree." "I know it!"I replied "It's my favorite spot!" "Well don't spread that around. My cottage is the green one on that little point." I smiled. "Ah, it is all clear to me now! I had always wondered about the crooked sign on the gate to your property." He returned my smile warmly. "My little piece of paradise! Who else but a Philosopher would give his cottage such a name. The perfect place for a thinker to take a break." He left us and headed to the dais. I closed the fly box and returned it to my pocket. As I started in the door Larry became animated. "Hey, what's the deal? What;'s the name of his little piece of paradise?"

"Moot Point!" I replied.