Glen is hard core. He once told me he has a policy he uses to determine when he will fish and when he will not. This policy of his is called the 30-30 rule and while it sounds like a caliber for a rifle, it actually lays the ground work for when he will and will not go fishing. My first exposure to “The Rule” was on a trip down the North Platte in Wyoming, in a stretch called the Gray Reef. Early on this October morning, and it was not a great day in my view, in that it was 36 degrees with a 25 mile an hour wind, we set out. By Wyoming standards this was a light breeze in mild conditions, maybe not a bluebird day, but pleasant and very suitable for outdoor activity---according to Glen.
Glen, in his most comfortable tone and never-ending smile of glee, simply said, as long as the temperature was 30 degrees and the wind was less than 30 mph, fishing was on. Admittedly, it helped that the Gray Reef was full of very large trout who loved wooly buggers, still 36 degrees and a sand-filled “breeze” of 25 almost made me soil myself. I found the question of “why” slipping through my mind. He and Frank looked at me as if I was a panty waste, a girly man.
We went and the fish came to us in great droves, Cutthroats, Browns and Rainbows, and even when the wind wrapped the fly lines around the boat and ourselves, there was never a whimper. As the evening approached, and the sun settled into the west, the temperature dropped to a point the eyes on my fly rod were ice-filled. In the dark, a herd of Elk crashed through the water in front of us, unseen but heard. It got late and we could not find the take out, but like Captain Ahab, Glen stood aft, throwing line for that last possible fish. I did not protest for this was life at its best! What is it with fishing?
So this morning, as a result of a call last night, I decided to go fishing tomorrow, to go for Steelhead. Initially, I hesitated after having seen the forecast of 23 degrees in the morning with a ten MPH wind. The 30-30 rule was not looking good here but the forecast for 11:00 was thought to be above freezing, so never mind, it was off on a two hour drive, all geared up and full of myself because the Sheboygan River was running at 300 cubic ft/sec and the big beauties would be moving up---so we imagined.
By eleven, the day had warmed to 42 and the sun floated nicely across the southern sky. In the grass along the bank, the frost still hung to the unlit blades, slippery to aging feet and crisp to the touch. Undeterred, we shuffled our way to waters edge. Our mind’s eye, like always, was filled with anticipation almost seeing the rainbow flash of a strike and the tug of a Great Lake’s monster.
Interestingly, we were alone on our favorite stretch, not a good sign really as it would appear that others were not fishing because the apple of our eyes had not arrived from the big lake. Then, we recalled other times, like this, where we were alone and the fish were there lurking in the deep spots and flowing ripples. Nothing like anticipation. Adrenaline moved through our anxious veins, unaltered by the chill. Dennis gloatingly reminded me of the 36 incher he landed last year.
In the slow backwaters, a few old gnarly, exhausted salmon were taking their last gasps. It was the Browns and Steelhead we were after, the ones fresh from the deep water, whose fight makes our blood flow. I flexed my flyrod, pulled out the long line, shadow cast a couple of times and landed my favorite bugger gently in the spot that only two years ago I parted company with a Steely of some 12 pounds (in my estimation) who in an act of defiance actually broke my steel hook.
As the afternoon wore on, and my disappointed flyrod worked, never once did a single fish embrace a single hair of my elegant flies. Was I a loser, a fishing ne’er-do-well, an inadequate provider? I reckon I didn’t care because the casting continued and my sometimes delusional dreaming flowed like water over my tasty lures. It is always the anticipation that will not let us leave. It is the thought that just one more cast will draw out the silvery devils in a froth of foam and turbulence.
By mid-afternoon, a touch disgruntled and a smidgen discouraged, we looked at each other and Dennis said, “God, another bust. Still, a nice day and we WERE players, not contenders, but players.”
I remarked, “We looked good, we tried. Maybe we are losers. Just what is it with this fishing?” Dennis responded, “Do you suppose we should come back tomorrow?”
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