The ‘cathedral’ of trout fishing

Here’s a nice piece by Mike Fannin of The Kansas City Star on his first try at fly fishing on the San Juan River of New Mexico:

NAVAJO DAM, N.M. — The first flare of sunlight sneaks over a distant ridge, a warning that the morning cool won’t last much longer. As a gallery of beig

e and faded green scrub races alongside the back window, welcoming you to this rocky and parched slice of northwest New Mexico, you wonder: Where on earth is the water?

Somewhere out there, waiting for us, is the San Juan River, where some of North America’s best fly fishermen mend their lines and make effortless casts in pursuit of crafty brown and rainbow trout. Through the last dips and twists of the road, the river finally appears in the distance, like a mirage.

It’s been an anxious drive from our vacation spot in Durango, Colo., and by the time my friends and I arrive at this dusty place straight out of a Jim Morrison dream, I’m officially nervous.

Here, in this cathedral of trout fishing, I will try my hand at fly fishing for the first time. Already, I know that my decades of fishing experience won’t impress anyone. To these fishermen, I’m a bait-caster. And if that sounds like a dirty word, well, you’re getting the idea.

We’ve called ahead to one of several roadside outfitters and reserved guides for the day. In a place where catch-and-release is religion, it is these men who watch over the thousands of trout who make their home just below the dam.

As if to emphasize that point, a friend and I are paired with a beefy, sun-baked guide named Bubba. From head to toe, he’s pure fly fisherman; been doing it since he was 5. He ties his own flies, some of which have been featured in the Orvis catalog. He’s like the fish whisperer, but he could also double as a bouncer at the motel bar/fly shop across the highway.

Only minutes after we shake hands, it becomes clear there will be no nonsense in Bubba’s rowboat.

“Are you trying to sneak a banana in my boat?” he asks, eyeing the morning snack tucked in my back pocket as we prepare to push off. “No bananas on the boat!”

With the offending fruit banished, we are soon gliding over clear, bubbling water and slick rocks. The sun is already beginning to jab at my shoulders and neck, entree to what will be a relentlessly hot day and reminder that I should have worn more than a baseball cap.

As we float past well-outfitted fishermen wearing waders, long-sleeved shirts and wide-brim hats, it’s easy to feel like an uninvited guest who’s stumbled upon a secret society — which is probably not far from truth.

Bubba finds a good spot away from the crowd, and now, with my adrenaline and nerves jangling like a school principal’s keys, it’s time for the first cast. This is the part I’ve been most concerned about and where art and science truly meet. Out here on the water, my 20 minutes of practice the night before is already forgotten.

In bait-casting, a flick of the wrist can produce a smooth, fluid line and a pleasing sound. In fly fishing, the wrist is your enemy. You may as well have left it at home.

Fly fishing rewards those who can keep their wrist rigid and stable during the cast. The idea is to a) pull your line out of the water forcefully; b) abruptly stop your rod at the 12 o’clock position; c) pause for one second; d) then bring your arm forward, wrist locked, like you’re stabbing a fork into a potato, stopping around the 9 o’clock position. Don’t think about it, just be natural. And do all of this, by the way, while you’re standing in a rocking boat.

My first cast lets Bubba know what he’s up against today.

“We’ve got a wrister!” he announces to anyone within earshot and no one in particular. Then, more softly, “We’ve got a wrister.”

Fortunately, Bubba knows how to deal with wristers. He reaches into his tackle box, takes out a thick rubber band and lashes my wrist to the rod until we are one. His advice is spare but sure, and within a few minutes, my casts are much better and occasionally even good.

Now, I should point out that my fishing buddy is an experienced fly fisherman. He’s been here many times before, and from the beginning of the day until the end — in eight-plus hours on the water — trout seem to be in a conga line wherever he lands his fly.

He catches the first fish, and the second, and the third. Browns and rainbows. At one point, a particularly angry brown he’s snagged tries to escape under our boat.

“He’s freaking out,” Bubba cautions. “But you’d freak out too if someone jammed a hook in your face.”

Around mid-morning, after Bubba has rowed us up and down the river and after much casting and mending of my line, I finally place one perfectly in front of some large rocks. It feels right. And then, a sudden splash of water and a flash of white underbelly, and what do you know, there’s a trout on my line.

Bubba reminds me to hold the rod straight up and then pull in my line, encouraging along the way: “Get him, Mike!”

This is the thrill of fishing with dry flies, which light on the surface of the water and allow the fisherman a front-row seat to the action. There will be no underwater bugs and strike indicators today.

As the fish thrashes closer to the boat and I lift him out just in time to hit Bubba’s net, our guide seems impressed.

“That’s a nice fish,” he says. It is 18 inches at least, long and fat and the most beautiful rainbow trout I’ve ever seen. At least that wasn’t on a plate.

But before we can become too cozy, the biggest catch of the morning is back in the water. And aside from one small cousin caught later, that will be it for me until the afternoon.

Around noon, we dock for a bit, and Bubba serves us sandwich lunches on a worn picnic table under a tree. The lost banana is long forgotten. We sit there sweating, talking about the fish we didn’t get into the boat, discussing technique and trading stories with other fishermen. By now, all anxiety is gone, and I’m ready to get back out there.

My eagerness is rewarded immediately. Within 50 feet of where we put back in, I catch three trout, one after another. For a glorious, ridiculous moment, I feel like I could fish to feed my family. And I’m beginning to understand why this sport is so winsome.

Then, I go into an hours-long drought. My cast isn’t as sure as it was in the morning, and my line gets tangled repeatedly.

“Where are you, you little fellers (my word, not his)?,” Bubba says, clearly annoyed at fish that haven’t produced bites. I half-expected them to listen to him.

But I’m tired now, and it shows. At one point, I lose balance in the choppy water and bang my shin hard against the seat, almost falling over.

“Stay in the boat,” Bubba says over his shoulder, having seen this a hundred times before.

At this point, I’m hoping for just one more fish, for that distinct pull on the line again before we call it a day. My prolific friend has slowed down as well. As we turn around a bend near the end of our trip down the river, there’s a promising seam in the water to our left.

Bubba tells us both to try that side. I cast, mend my line, let a little more out and then, bang, something is on my hook. As I look over, my friend is also fighting.

“It’s a double dip,” Bubba says, and we’re all momentarily linked in the struggle.

They are both brown and small, which belies their strength and ferocity. The final test of the day is to get my half of this two-fer into the boat, and I’m relieved when both are aboard. As Bubba rows to the bank, there are satisfied smiles all around and a sense that we’ve done what we came to do.

Later, as we lean over cold refreshments in the worn roadside motel bar/fly shop, I have a mild epiphany.

“It’s like golf,” I say to my friend.

It’s the technique involved. The expensive equipment and the exclusiveness of it. The pastoral quality. The way hours of practice are rewarded. The frustration when it’s not going well. And the fact that the challenge is you against yourself and the elements, not the fish.

That’s not a bad comparison, he agrees, adding: “Now we’ll see if you’re hooked.”