Posted By: Capt. Mac
The Return - 04/05/22 06:46 PM
April 4 '22
I stepped out of my skiff, into the sand-colored water, on the edge on the edge of a gravel bar. My wadding shoes filled with cool water and almost instantly I could feel sand balling up in the toes of the shoes. I slid an eight-foot four weight rod out of the rack, checked the hook point on the fly, turned to survey the stretch of creek I was about to fish and took a deep breath. The sounds of birds singing, small frogs chirping, a light breeze rustling through the buds on the trees and that dank, earthy smell that only an outdoorsman could love filled the air. I felt whole again. I've done this in the almost exact same spot this time of year many times over the few decades but this time it was different for me. This would be the first time in two hundred and thirty-two days that I picked up a fly rod with the intensions of casting and, hopefully, catching a fish. Surgery on my casting shoulder has had me sidelined since the middle of August. Almost six months of physical therepy. My surgeon and physical therapist have told me it's time to get out and test the shoulder under live fire conditions, with a fly rod in my hand. I was still a little bit nervous about setting the hook. Smooth motions like casting wouldn't be a problem but quick, jolting movements kind of concerned me some.
The day was so pretty, and it felt so good just to be out running the boat and going through all the usual motions associated with fishing, I didn't really care if I caught a fish or not. On the other hand, I felt that I needed to catch something just to put an exclamation point on my return.
I waded into a narrow stretch of shallow riffles, took another deep breath and started casting. Short casts. Easy. I could see schools of fish moving up the riffles, chasing each other in that spawning dance they do. Showers of small minnows would erupt when the schools got close to the bank. I could hear turkeys gobbling off in the distance. And just like that it happened. I got a thump, set the hook. No pain, no weird feelings and nothing fell off. I was hooked up with a fish on a beautiful day in one of my favorite places and for that moment, everything was back to normal.
And I will never take that for granted.
I stepped out of my skiff, into the sand-colored water, on the edge on the edge of a gravel bar. My wadding shoes filled with cool water and almost instantly I could feel sand balling up in the toes of the shoes. I slid an eight-foot four weight rod out of the rack, checked the hook point on the fly, turned to survey the stretch of creek I was about to fish and took a deep breath. The sounds of birds singing, small frogs chirping, a light breeze rustling through the buds on the trees and that dank, earthy smell that only an outdoorsman could love filled the air. I felt whole again. I've done this in the almost exact same spot this time of year many times over the few decades but this time it was different for me. This would be the first time in two hundred and thirty-two days that I picked up a fly rod with the intensions of casting and, hopefully, catching a fish. Surgery on my casting shoulder has had me sidelined since the middle of August. Almost six months of physical therepy. My surgeon and physical therapist have told me it's time to get out and test the shoulder under live fire conditions, with a fly rod in my hand. I was still a little bit nervous about setting the hook. Smooth motions like casting wouldn't be a problem but quick, jolting movements kind of concerned me some.
The day was so pretty, and it felt so good just to be out running the boat and going through all the usual motions associated with fishing, I didn't really care if I caught a fish or not. On the other hand, I felt that I needed to catch something just to put an exclamation point on my return.
I waded into a narrow stretch of shallow riffles, took another deep breath and started casting. Short casts. Easy. I could see schools of fish moving up the riffles, chasing each other in that spawning dance they do. Showers of small minnows would erupt when the schools got close to the bank. I could hear turkeys gobbling off in the distance. And just like that it happened. I got a thump, set the hook. No pain, no weird feelings and nothing fell off. I was hooked up with a fish on a beautiful day in one of my favorite places and for that moment, everything was back to normal.
And I will never take that for granted.