- Jeremy Koreski
- Filed in:
Granted, most fly anglers are far older, fatter, and smooth-skinned than the types of souls who would endeavor to tread at an altitude where commercial airliners fly, or ride a lethal wall of water at speeds that make white sharks blink as you buzz past…
But we still dream, and tilt at our own windmills, and chase holy grails. The cool thing is that our grails are always living, elusive creatures – and the only reward most of us really wish for is a mere chance to connect with them for brief instants, perhaps touch them in passing, and ultimately let them go.
For the fly angler, the quest most often starts with a trout. Having figured that puzzle out enough to gain some confidence, you might then find yourself wading a tropical flat, searching for bonefish, or standing in a sideways snowstorm, lobbing thousands of casts, hoping for a tug from a wild steelhead. Then you might decide the fickle permit is worth the effort. You might pull on a prehistoric tarpon (and it only takes one of those to change your world forever), or a mako shark, or a colorfully-exotic peacock bass.
Then, the more “sophisticated” you become, the more you realize that the old “trash fish” carp that’s been swimming in the dirty water right down the road all along, is far from stupid, so you try to figure out how to catch it with a fly also.
Trust me. It’s an expensive, exhausting, always fascinating, sometimes dangerous vortex that sucks you in, and consumes part of your soul. But at the end of the odyssey, the final stop on the road is where you’re going to find one fish, and one fish only.
Schoolchildren in Rewa
The waiting game