Fly fishing is a very pleasant amusement; but angling or float fishing, I can only compare to a stick and a string, with a worm at one end and a fool at the other.

At early dawn when the air is crisp And you're standing knee deep in a beautiful rip You see a trout rise to an unknown fly Then your heart starts to thump and you wonder why You're a neophyte fly fisherman. You can measure the cast and study the lie Then lengthen the line to make your first try As you check the rod to get a good presentation You hold your breath in solemn anticipation You must be a fly fisherman! The fly floats gently on its way to the trout You know it will "take it" without a doubt. You're all charged up and ready to strike But the fly floats by because something's not right You are still a fly fisherman. You open your fly box and select a new fly Then lengthen the tippet before the next try Change your position to help with the cast And hope you have made the right decision at last Now you are a doubtful fly fisherman.

You wait a moment to settle your nerves Then make your cast with a right hand curve The fly settles down and the float looked good But the trout refused it and there you stood A dejected fly fisherman. You looked things over and were not yet beat Then changed flies again and were ready to repeat The next try was poor because you rushed the cast You hold your breath in solemn anticipation You must be a fly fisherman! The fly floats gently on its way to the trout You know it will "take it" without a doubt. You're all charged up and ready to strike But the fly floats by because something's not right You are still a fly fisherman. You open your fly box and select a new fly Then lengthen the tippet before the next try Change your position to help with the cast And hope you have made the right decision at last Now you are a doubtful fly fisherman.

Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of course I usually fish the big waters alone, although some friends think I shouldn't. Like many fly fishermen in western Montana where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.

In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing. We lived at the junction of great trout rivers in western Montana, and our father was a Presbyterian minister and a fly fisherman who tied his own flies and taught others. He told us about Christ's disciples being fishermen, and we were to assume, as my brother and I did, that all first-class fishermen on the Sea of Galilee were fly fishermen and that John, the favorite, was a dry-fly fisherman.

And for winter fly-fishing it is as useful as an almanac out of date.