How Marriage Turned Me Into A 'Real' Fisherman

I wasn't born a fisherman. I married into it. Don't get me wrong, I did go fishing before I married, but it was a family tradition rather than a sport. Every year my family spent two weeks in Yellowstone National Park, fishing the cold, choppy waters of Yellowstone Lake. Each morning we would set off in our small Sea Ray runabout, armed with spinning rods. If the weather was fair we made the 30-minute trip to the other side and fished the steep, wave-cut banks on the west face of Dot Island. If the weather was particularly agreeable, we might even go past Dot to Eagle Bay, where there is a place to dock and restrooms. If the weather was questionable, we fished the south side of Stevenson Island. When the lake really got angry, rolling 3 1/2-foot, log-like waves at the boat, we hugged the shore just outside the marina for about two to three miles. Just past Gull Point, in the bay directly south of the marina, a drain pipe channels rainwater into the lake. Many times we caught our dinner floating 150 yards off that drain, when most of the other boats were either docked or trying to fight their way to shelter.

I had never fished anywhere but these few places. Why would I? My father and mother had fished these places with my grandparents. As far as I knew, my Great Grandpa Somebody had revealed in a vision the four places in the world where there is good fishing. Luckily, all were located on Yellowstone Lake.

My father-in-law is a different type of fisherman. He fishes with a spinning rod. He trolls. He fishes from a boat, in a float tube, from the bank& on lakes, on streams, in streams. There is no kind of fishing that this man has not done. Most of all, he loves to fly fish.

One of the first things this gentleman said to me when we met was, "So, do you like to fish?" "Sure I do!" I replied, completely ignorant of what fishing really was.

"Do you fly fish?"

"I don't think so. What's that?"

I have been learning the answer to that question ever since. Not long after we married, my wife and I were each given waders and a fly rod by her dad. Then I began to learn about things like water temperature, water depth, the direction of the current, plant life, insect life, sunlight, moon phase, etc. With all of those things going unnoticed, it is truly a wonder we ever got a nibble on Yellowstone Lake.

I never knew fishing could be so complex a sport. I was given books to read about fishing, and other books with short pieces of cord to learn to tie knots. I was given a shortened version of a fly rod with six feet of fuzzy, blue yarn so I could practice casting indoors. I was given movies to watch. I learned about insects and how to sift through the water and see what bugs would be hatching from nymphs to adults.

At Yellowstone we never considered if there were mayflies or stoneflies hatching. We would just tie on a gold Jake's Spin-a-Lure and throw it out. If someone caught a couple fish, somebody would ask, "How fast ya reelin?" That was as complicated as it got for me. Now, there were suddenly a million different fly patterns and a million places to fish. I learned all of these things with more interest in keeping family unity than in becoming a fisherman. After all, fishing is only something you do for a couple weeks every summer when you're on vacation. Or so I thought.

I remember the day all that changed. On a sunny Saturday in early May, Lisa (my wife) and I went with her dad to Currant Creek, a small stream about 30 miles east of Strawberry. Lisa's dad pulled his green Suburban off the main road beside a section of stream he thought looked promising. We all jumped out, wrestled into our waders and strung up our rods. Lisa's dad gave us each a fly to start with, and we hiked the short distance to the creek.

Currant Creek is not the kind of place where I would have looked for fish. It reminds me of an irrigation canal. It ranges from three to six feet wide, with tall willows and other brush crowding its banks. The water is a mirror, reflecting back the pale sky. Because it is so clear, you can easily see any fish that might be patrolling, suspiciously scanning the surface for signs of mayflies or caddis. Unfortunately, the fish can see you as easily as you can see them. After scaring a few away, I learned it is necessary to sneak up on a spot.

I stopped at the first spot that looked like it had potential and started fishing. After only 10 minutes I caught a fish. I have to admit, this fish wasn't the biggest I'd ever seen. And I didn't even feel it take my fly. I started to bring my line in and there he was. Matter of fact, I even considered leaving him hooked and lobbing him back into the creek as bait. But I didn't. I brought in my minnow, released it and went back to fishing the same spot, proud of the fact that I was the first to catch something. Lisa and her dad slowly moved downstream until I could no longer see them. Not me. I never moved a step. In Yellowstone, where there is one fish there are others. I'm quite sure I would have spent the entire day at that one spot if it had not been for Lisa. She came charging back through the brush calling to me, "Come quick! We've found more fish!"

After a few protests I gave in and followed my wife downstream. We came to a large, gentle bend in the river. As we approached, Lisa stopped and turned back to me. "They're right up ahead, but you have to be careful not to spook 'em." Lisa's father was on his knees flicking his line upstream into the heart of the bend. This truly was the weirdest type of fishing I'd ever seen.

We watched her father, and before long he caught a one. It was an amazing sight. One second his fly was rolling up and down as it danced with the ripples. Then came a sudden, violent boiling and the fly disappeared. He smoothly raised his rod and a 16-inch brown trout exploded from the water. I got so excited watching him I nearly fell over backward into the creek. Slowly, Lisa's father played the fish. Only after he maneuvered it around the bend did he stand up and land it. After he unhooked and released the fish he turned to me: "Now you go up there and fish where I was. You'll be able to tell where the fish are because you can see 'em come up ever' now and then."

Nervously, I waddled over to the spot. I looked and, sure enough, ever few seconds I saw a disturbance in the water and a slight flash of nose or fin. I could see my adversary, and I knew what I had to do to beat him. Slowly, I lifted my rod. In a flash I caught the biggest, greenest willow tree I had ever laid eyes on. Needless to say, my wife and father-in-law thought my predicament quite funny. I knelt there while they laughed for a couple minutes. Then they took pity on me and my wife crawled into the bushes to free my fly.

I tried again and my fly made it to the water but fell several feet short of the fish. I picked up my line and again hooked the willows behind me. I began to think the only way to fish was from a boat, far from willows. This time, as my wife went into the bushes to retrieve my fly, my father-in-law crawled up beside me. "Lift your rod higher over your head and you won't get caught in the bushes." He made it sound like controlling my backcast should be as easy as breathing. I wish I could say that I got the hang of it after that and everything went smoothly, but it didn't. I probably caught the bushes another half-dozen times. After that, I had the problem of hitting the water. Then, hitting the right spot on the water.

Finally, after about a half-hour, I got the fly to the right spot. Then, the unthinkable happened and water boiled around my fly. Frantically, I jerked my line, but for some reason there was no resistance. My fly came hurling out of the water and nestled in its familiar home in the bushes. My father-in-law, reading the bewildered look on my face, said reassuringly, "That's okay. You just pulled up a little too quick. Try again and wait just a little longer this time."

The next time the water surged, I hesitated, not wanting to spring the trap before the bait was fully taken. When I yanked up there was a heavy load attached. "I got him! I got him!" Never had I fought such a battle as I did against that fish. Never had I felt such satisfaction over merely catching a fish. It's not like he was the biggest fish I had ever caught. I'd pulled many fish out of Yellowstone Lake that were as large or larger. But this time I didn't just luck into it. I saw where the fish was, I said, "I'm going to catch that fish," and I stayed and worked at it till I did.

We fished the same bend in the river for about two hours. One of us would catch a fish and crawl around the bend to land it. Then the next person would waddle up on hands and knees to take a turn. All three of us caught several fish out of that spot. Once things started to slow, we snaked our way downstream. We caught fish everywhere we went. We also had luck on many different flies. Early in the day mayflies were hatching. Later caddis started to hatch, so we switches flies and continued to catch fish. Several times I was able to sneak up on a rising fish and work until I outsmarted it.

Before I married, I never fished anywhere but Yellowstone. I began learning about fly fishing because I wanted to fit in with my new extended family.

But I gained a lot more from Currant Creek than an appreciation for fly fishing. I no longer saw myself as a person married to a fishing family. I became a husband and a fisherman, and I love both.

Fishing - National Parks - ATV - Photography - Other Topics - Recreational Property
Fly Fishing - Hiking - Snowmobile - Video - Outdoor Blog - About Us