Heading Out
Looking for a last-minute reprieve, I turned to my brother-in-law to admit my reluctance, but Brian was already at the Forester climbing into his waders. Resigned to my fate, I donned the borrowed waders and a fishing vest that Brian had packed. Pulling a plastic box from one of the pockets, he showed me half a dozen flies to use if—or more likely when—I lost the Mayfly floater that hung from my rod.

I trailed Brian across the cobblestones and into the water. My brother-in-law downplayed his abilities with the rod, but four out of five of his casts dropped his fuzzy hook as gently as if it were a true insect falling from the sky. That, I was told, was the point: to simulate a local fly landing on the river's rippling waters. If the casting is done correctly, a hungry trout would see neither the line nor the fisherman and would be tricked into striking the counterfeit morsel.

Going For Accuracy
Unlike bait fishing, where shoulder and arm strength directly correlate with casting distance, fly fishing requires finesse, grace, and extraordinary timing. Patiently, Brian demonstrated the cast. He dropped his hook in the stream and let the current withdraw a few yards of delicate filament from his rod tip. In a straight, steady motion, he gently lifted the rod to his shoulder, following it with a backward snap. The line leaped from the water and arched over us. Then he waited. And waited some more. When he sensed that the whisper of line and weightless fly had extended itself fully, he pushed his arm forward and chased it with a crack of his wrist. The line fell gracefully across the dapples, the fly drifting onto the stream. "Go for accuracy, not distance," my brother-in-law said.

Two Fishermen Walk Into A Stream
I did as he had done. Exactly as he instructed. Or at least that's what I thought until I saw my fly crash into the water 10 feet in front of me followed by a tangled ball of line. "It just takes practice," Brian assured me as he moved upstream.

I invested 10 minutes trying to unravel my first cast, then another 10 searching my vest for its replacement. I stitched a new fly and tried again. The next hour showed little progress, though my tangles were less terminal.

With more suggestions from Brian, the second hour brought one decent cast out of every 10. Clearly, success in fly fishing is not measured in fish caught, but rather in the pleasure derived in mastering the delicate technique. I imagined it is similar to a surfer’s first perfect ride through the tube. It immediately necessitates another attempt, although the feat may take years to repeat.

Through hours two, three, and four I tuned my performance until I reached a three-out-of-10 rate of success. Needless to say, no fish was foolish enough to be tricked by my oddly acting flies. I could almost hear the angler jokes being passed from one trout to the other at my expense.