"Size doesn't matter," they say, casting their lines with zen-like serenity. But watch these enlightened anglers when a behemoth feels their hook, the waters surge, and the rod bends like a green willow limb. All the philosophical musings about “just being out there” evaporate like the morning dew in a dry August breeze. One moment, they're waxing poetic, slinging Izzak Walton quotes about the gentle art of fly fishing; the next, they're wrestling a river monster like it's the last fish on Earth. It's remarkable how a few extra inches of slippery, scaled excitement can transform a calm and thoughtful soul into a maniacal fish fiend.

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IN THE RIFFLES

Image by Dave Holsman

I’ve always been a big fan of the Discovery Channel. Growing up, I’d sit on the couch with my eyes glued to the screen, on the edge of my seat with anticipation. The programming was always beautiful and informative, but the real reason I was so obsessed with such nature shows were the predators.


A lion charging out of the brush and pouncing on the zebra, a crocodile popping up and grabbing wildebeest, or best of all, a shark hurling itself from the water with a seal clamped in its mouth—those were my favorite parts. I know that sounds slightly, uh, “serial killerish,” but as I have repeatedly told my therapist, my fascination had nothing to do with the blood and guts of it all, but rather with the act of predation. The ambush, the attack—frankly, it was all just so cool.


Fast forward a few years to me standing on the banks of a river at sunset, tying a mouse fly onto my line and watching a big brown trout feed along the edges of the willows. I made a long cast ahead of him, landing the mouse just off the bank. Then I pulled it off with a few quick strips, and saw the brown turn and absolutely explode on the fly. It was awesome, it was fantastic—it was just like being a kid again. I’ve been obsessed with mousing ever since.


Mousing is perhaps the most thrilling way to catch trout in all of fly fishing…

 

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