Today's world is a constant race. Lack of speed and a weak desire for upward mobility are seen as an impediment. Faster, stronger, newer, are the catch words of our day. In light of that, I consider myself lucky to have discovered a way to rail against such foolishness.

If you closely examine the newest fly fishing magazines and catalogs, you will find more and more equipment that is guaranteed to make you cast farther and faster. You will see a trove of tools that simply cannot be lived without. Strategically posed anglers with the latest in necessary gear cradle gleaming leviathans in their arms as if to suggest that if we will spend the money, we too can be space age anglers who retrieve record sized fish at every outing. The day that slick advertising and cheap foreign labor started courting the fly fishing community, a vital part of the sport was effectively laid to rest, and one of the most common reasons for fly fishing in the first place was placed in a lock box and pushed under the bed to gather dust bunnies along side lost socks and worn out shoes.

Fly fishing was in the beginning, and still is for me, a very slow, reflective, quiet, and to a certain degree, romantic past time. The basic tenants of Fly fishing are still the same. A gurgling brook or singing river, wading as slow and unobtrusive as your fumbling feet will allow, and the cast. A long, slow back cast that hangs motionless for a moment before you roll the line out on the water, the fly dropping on or under the surface with the force of a whisper. When I think fly fishing, that is what I consider to be the foundation of the sport.

I guess that is why, for me, bamboo is not a way to fish, it is the ONLY way to fish. To cast a well made bamboo fly rod, one that very well could be older than your Grandfather, is the true essence of the reason I started this journey in the first place. It causes me to slow down, relax, and enjoy. I own several "boos", and though some are of greater renown than others, I enjoy each one of them.

Please don't think that I am trying to be elitist; I own and am not to good to use a graphite rod. But when someone from a New York Ad agency that no doubt has never stood in the middle of a stream is trying to mix the subtle wink and nudge of a car salesman into a sport that traditionally has been a way to escape such things, all I can do is shake my head.

My Grandfather once said, "Sometimes it takes a long time to get over fools hill", and when I see people sinking money into equipment that will be outdated before the new is worn off of it, I look in the corner of my fly tying room at the modest collection tubes that contain rods that were built before I was born, and I understand just what he meant. Why invest in the new? After all, the river is older than you can fathom, and I trust that it has served you well.

I am a study hound. No doubt about it, if I am interested in something, I will read everything I can find about it. The way I look at it, the more I know before I start, the shorter the learning curve when I actually undertake the task at hand. Without question this is pure genetics. My Dad is the same way. Knowledge doesn’t give you the upper hand, knowledge IS the upper hand.

To further explain, let me take you to my latest fishing trip. The river I was on is stocked every November and as I stood on the bank I scanned the water for any sign of activity. Nada. No rises, no swirls, just the steady roll of the water. I know they are in there, and I know that they are young and new to the neighborhood, but what I didn’t know where they were.

Now, back to the comments about study. One of the things I have learned about stocked trout is that they are accustomed to being huddled in together; so odds were that if I could find one, I would locate several. Another thing I have learned is that feeding trout like a moderately swift current, steady food supply, and a quick means of escape it threatened. By combing this information, it was obvious that I needed to fish an area that was roughly forty feet in front of me. Riffles, bubbles denoting the primary feed line of the river, and enough big rocks to provide cover.

The rod I was fishing was a wispy 3wt. bamboo that I chose because I knew that if I hooked a fish it would be small. Rigged with one of my favorite go to’s, I began casting and for several minutes I was unsure if there were any fish in there at all. Then it happened…BAM! My yarn indicator sank and I gave a swift tug. From that point on it was one fish after another, seemingly on every cast. The fish were hanging out exactly where I thought they would be. All of them in the ten inch range…with one exception.

The subtlest take of the day proved to be the best fish. The indicator didn’t submerge, it moved sideways against the current. I set the hook and almost immediately my line began racing away and the bend in the 3wt. removed any questions. Twice it ran causing my small reel to whir before I finally brought it to the net. A nice Rainbow of 13 or 14” with vibrant colors. One quick pop and the barbless hook was free, and so was my catch of the day.

The water where these fish were feeding would not be the first choice of fishing locations. Several other spots looked fishy. But with countless trips under my belt and a wealth of knowledge through a passionate study of my sport, I knew where they would be.

The day was great, I lost count of the number of fish brought to hand, and I was given yet another opportunity to spend time in the one great refuge I have found. Time spent with God, nature, and a 6’ 9” bamboo that got the workout of a lifetime.

Monday. A Government holiday which meant I had some wiggle room to hit the water. So, having found my five or so hours of time, I headed out. The hour of my departure was early, by the time the six o’clock bell rang to wake my still sleeping family, I would be well on my way. After stopping for gas and a 24oz. bottle of a syrupy energy drink that couldn’t be good for me, I caught the interstate and rolled north to the Clinch River.

Once upon a time, the Clinch was a revered place in the Southeast. Photos of proud anglers holding kipe jawed leviathans was not uncommon. Stories around campfires at night were full of Clinch river trout that were hooked, but never seen as they stripped the angler of his fly line, backing, and his pride.

That was the Clinch of old. The Clinch of today is more like a future hall of fame football player who is old and tired but to in love with the game to quit. What used to be a normal catch of 14” now brings whoops and shouts of joy. If you catch more than two over 12” it has been a good day.

Knowing this, I approached the water with minimal expectations. The water was low, not particularly cold, and completely void of any activity that would suggest that fish were to be found. I fumbled two #22 midges on my line and waded out.

The third cast brought a little guy to hand. It was young and looked like it hadn’t been in the neighborhood very long judging by its worn fins from the hatchery. After pulling the fly from its mouth I lowered it back into the water where it darted underneath a rock to try and figure out what had just happened.

It was then that the trip took an odd twist. On the wooded hillside behind me, I could hear the passionate wail of dogs who sounded as if they were on the trail of something. The thought had no sooner passed my mind when a four point buck bounded out of the timber and into the river no more than thirty yards from where I stood. I watched in amazement as this animal raced through the early morning fog. Valiantly he pushed forward until he stumbled into a deep hole, sinking up to his neck in the current. The dogs emerged from the underbrush and with reckless abandon they rumbled in after him. Finally the deer managed to climb up on an exposed rock, but he had trapped himself and the dogs were closing in fast. With no where to quickly escape, the buck then did the only thing he could do, he turned to face his attackers. They inched up the rock, growling with a deep tone as the buck lowered his antlers and spread his front legs to secure his footing. At that point the fight was on. One by one the dogs lunged at him, and as they did so, he dispatched one, a yellow lab mix that found himself lifted completely out of the water. The others, having seen the fate of their friend, slowly backed away, heading back to wherever home might be.

The deer stood on the rock for another half hour or so. I thanked God for letting me get such a thrill, and continued fishing. The buck kept watching me, and the thought crossed my mind that if the old boy came my way, I’d be in the world of hurt. Luckily he moved across the river and disappeared.

The rest of the day I fished with my friend Jeremy. We both caught fish, he having the better of our days. Both of us catching each other up on life events and discussing the quality of the Clinch, but in my mind I kept going back to that scene of the day waking up, and life…real life…the life of this amazing planet as it unfolded before my eyes.

A three-day weekend with two days that present the possibility to fish. How great that sounds, but the reality of it is that if I can pull five hours out of the whole weekend, I’ll be doing well.

Five hours. To those who don’t fish mid stream, five hours is a long time to be doing anything; but to those like myself who find so much joy in the angling sport, five hours could be likened to stretching before a 25K marathon.

I am a slow angler. As a rule, I take my time, never get in a hurry, and prefer to work an area hard before moving on. Methodical in my approach, but for some reason the clock never seems to slow down with me. Sure, there have been those “time stands still” moments, but for the most part, hours while I am on the water have the uncanny knack of evaporating at a rate that seems almost surreal.

This is the season of the tiny fly. The tail waters I fish require cold weather bugs that are best tied using an electron microscope and fiber optics. Calling one of my favorite fly shops yesterday, I was amazed to find out that I could actually buy size 30 midge hooks. Size 30! To put that in perspective, that would be like tying a fly with a hook that is not much different in size from the lower case letters of this report. I seriously doubt that I will ever feel the need to tie something that small. These eyes have a hard enough time with the 22’s, and 24’s that I attempt from time to time.

These microscopic bugs, or midges, are the ticket in winter and I have a fly box that is actually an old metal aspirin box with a thin magnet glued to the inside. These bugs are so small and light that a simple refrigerator magnet will hold them all day. Now imagine trying to tie one of these on 6 or 7X tippet while standing in a 45 degree river with a thirty degree air temperature. That is why God made threaders!

In any event, this weekend at some point I will grab my little aspirin box of flies, face the brisk November wind, and glean my five or so hours, which will only seem like minutes. And the day will be spectacular. It always is………………..

Isn’t it odd? Even if you have three or four fly boxes full of stuff, just before a big trip you feel as though you must tie some more? It is almost as if you are seeking some magic combination that will bring the mother load of trout that hasn’t been equaled since Christ told his Apostles to cast on the other side of the boat.

That is where I find myself right now. I have a one day trip planned for next week and even though I know that in one of my boxes is the right size and type of fly I will need, I am still thinking about when I will have time to tie some up for the trip.

The funny thing is…as always, I will wind up using one of three flies that seem to wind up on my tippet before the day is through. Bead Head Pheasant Tail, Hairs Ear Nymph, and a Parachute Adams. I have every variety of scud, sow bug, midge, caddis, and stone fly in my boxes, but I always return to those three. I have always heard that you should “dance with the one that brung ya”, and in fly selection I am no different. There may be slight variations to the patterns. A little soft hackle here, a little flash there, but the big three are always what I turn to.

I guess it is a lot like life. We are most drawn to the things that make us comfortable, things that we can count on. Even though the temptation or allure of something new excites our imaginations, it is the stability found in choices that take no effort that keep us on track.

There are those hard core fly fishermen who are dead set on matching the hatch, but how many times in a years worth of angling do you encounter a magic hatch? I can personally only recall two or maybe three times when the choice of fly was actually dictated by a massive hatch or the real thing emerging from the water. And even then I probably tied on an Adams with a Hares Ear Dropper. Stubborn to the highest, I cling to my comfort and hope that the trout are not nearly as dead set on the specific as I am.