The myth has it patrolled ruthlessly by a grizzled fellow in overalls whose well oiled Blunderbuss is flanked by aimlessly scratching hounds – who are wary of his large plug of chaw – which is spat indiscriminately at dogs, feet, and anything else that ain’t nailed down.

Last week while surveying the fishless Little Stinking, Travelwriter let it drop that down the road from his vast holdings, existed a farm pond where huge fish porpoised lazily in pursuit of flies. As these were few and far between – amused themselves by eating ducks in between chewing on rubber tires and the shattered remnants of rowboats, the only trace of the fellows that tried it last year, all of whom are still missing.

I’d had to pause in our casting lesson and deliver a stern admonishment, “firstly, a farm pond is a sacred thing, it could be the greatest fishing ever experienced by mortal man, or it could well be lifeless. Secondly, you’ve mastered the Third Law of Fly fishing – the casual private property name droppage, followed by the offhand mention of a white whale, or reasonable facsimile.”

“But you’ve got to learn to cast more than seventeen feet, Grasshopper – try to use less toes on your next forward cast …”

I’ve never met a pond I didn’t like, especially when trying to teach some fellow the rudiments of fly casting. I was hoping it would be full of starving stunted fish that gave no quarter and asked for none.

Weed lined, perhaps a little over an acre in size, and 10 feet deep and the center … owning a flair for the dramatic she was dubbed, “Pond X.”

Travelwriter and I wandered around the edge tossing different colors of the Little Stinking Olive, which were received warmly – by small bass and bluegill.

… which owned the blackest, most vivid lateral line I’ve seen. The fish were in wonderful shape and most were under a pound. The owner had mentioned much larger fish present – but it was a blustery day, and a bit early yet. The spawn will be starting soon, no redds were yet visible and I assumed most of the fish were hanging in the deeper water, still a bit lethargic.

“ I see a fish … I see a fish, he’s right out from me”, came the wail from the tules behind me. Travelwriter was dancing with excitement, unsure what to do while pointing his rod at the offending beast. I says, “good, now catch the damn thing.”

“I got a fish, I GOT a fish” was the response. Naturally I dropped everything to immortalize the moment, “ … he was right out from me so I dropped the fly in the water and jiggled it … he ATE it … is that fly fishing?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him about all of the sins committed under the guise of fly fishing; how throwing the rod, rocks, or merely diving in with a loincloth and Buck knife could be loosely construed as same…

“… now we’ve got to work on the pose, Grasshopper. That ain’t a Burrito, and your quarry is deserved of a little dignity, so hold it right side up, and give me a grimace … stretch them arms toward me to magnify …wipe that grin off your face … Oh, hell, we’ll work on the pinup later.”

“Grab that roach clip off’n your vest and see if you can’t remove that barbless hook without half the gills coming with it.”

Hell yes, based on the size of that grin, it’s fly fishing.

Tags: A Wannabe Travelwriter, farm pond, largemouth Black Bass, fly fishing, fly fishing humor, little stinking olive, bluegill,