You don't have to be a fly fisher to enjoy the bounty of the wilderness

N.S. NOKKENTVED

Originally published August 21, 2001

A couple of weeks ago, chance brought a new book to my desk at work -- and with it some old memories.

It was the second time a book by David James Duncan had appeared in my life. The latest book, "My Story as Told by Water" ($24.95, Sierra Club Books, San Francisco), reminded me of almost-forgotten days when I tried to become a fly fisher.

One day many years ago, a battered copy of Duncan's first novel, "The River Why," made its way mysteriously into my life. The story of a fictional Oregon fly fisher inspired me to take up the sport.

What is it about fly-fishing that inspires such passion and eloquence?

I bought a used fly rod and reel, some flyline and a box of colorful flies. With a bit of pipe cleaner tied onto the leader I learned how to cast to the imaginary trout lurking beneath the bushes in front of my house outside Stanwood.

I learned how to read the water of the Skagit and the Stillaguamish rivers and how to set the fly gently on the water -- most of the time. I also became very good at hooking various trees and shrubs -- and once the back of my own waders.

I struggled with the art of identifying the insects hatching on the water and finding something in the fly box close enough to fool the trout. I even caught a few fish.

But fly-fishing never lit the fire in me the way it did for Duncan. Perhaps I started too late in life.

Anyway, I took my learning with me to Idaho and tried it on some of the best fly-fishing waters in the state. Then one day, knee-deep in the Wood River -- with central Idaho's Boulder Mountains looking over my shoulder -- I realized that fly-fishing just wasn't for me. Something about watching the moving water made me dizzy.

I reeled in my flyline and waded ashore. I sat for a long time trying to figure it out, watching the river, watching the wind blow clouds of pollen from the pines. I understood the magic, but that was the last time I went fly-fishing.

I still find pleasure in the little magic moments that nature displays for us when we're quiet and pay attention. But whenever I hear people talk about fly-fishing, a vague sense of regret rises in me like a trout to a hatch. After all, a favorite uncle is a dedicated fly fisher who has taught fly-fishing in Europe and written books on the subject.

Duncan has given me an out.

In his new book -- a collection of essays -- he reminds us that rivers are so much more than just water, bed and banks, and that fly-fishing is so much more than just "harvesting a resource." And he makes a passionate case for saving endangered Columbia-Snake River salmon.

His description of catching a wild Oregon coho -- the magic that makes sense of the relentless November rains, and the true Northwest Thanksgiving feast he prepares with friends -- almost made me long for the fly rod I sold some years ago.

He carries his passion beyond fly-fishing and tackles issues facing the Northwest. He delves into the moral and spiritual aspects of rivers, fishing and the importance of native wild salmon.

But he made me realize it's not fly-fishing that matters; it's my attitude toward nature -- appreciating the wonder of a wild river, the life cycle of a caddis fly, the flight of a hummingbird, or the amazing 900-mile migration of wild sockeye salmon from the ocean to the mountain lakes of central Idaho.

Thanks, David, for your eloquent and passionate plea for the salmon and other wild things, for lifting a quiet burden, and for helping me appreciate wild rivers and wild fish without wetting a line.

N.S. Nokkentved covers the outdoors for The Olympian. He has no idea what happened to that first book. But he can be reached at 360-754-5445.

The Olympian Copyright 2001

back to main Outdoors: Quiet Waters index