In this issue:

• Meditations Upon the Savior, by J.C. Ryle
• Attention Deer Hunters!
• One More Cast
• Christ, The Mediator, by Stephen Charnock
• Tinned Tobacco Review
• Pheasant Hunting by PSF
• Frugal Fly Fisherman
• Websites of Interest
  

I am not the first father to know the agony of a strained relationship with his daughter. Sadly, father-daughter discord has been common fare in many families throughout history. If there is anything unusual about my situation, it resides solely in the reality of progressive repentance--the grace of God enabling me to admit my own culpability in the matter, and to take some necessary steps towards reconciliation. Dealing honestly with Angela about the problems that divide us has been painful, yet productive: Mutual respect is slowly rooting out the old animosities which threatened to totally destroy our affection for one another. I mention this personal issue only to highlight the particular significance of a phone call back in March.

My kid called and said, "I want to spend more time with you this year; I want you to take me fishing." This was an opportunity only a fool would pass up. So, I asked her, "You interested in being taught how to fly fish?" Drowning nightcrawlers would have been perfectly agreeable to me (anything to get us on the water together) but I was hoping the prospect of learning how to fish with feathers would interest Angela. "I'd love it," she said: precisely the response I desired to hear.

I could have easily given my daughter the right stuff to get started. In my study sits an 8-1/2' slow action 5-weight I rarely use, plus an extra fly reel and a weight-forward line: the ideal setup for a feminine newcomer to the exceptionally excellent discipline of fly fishing. It would have been the inexpensive--I should say, cheap--way out. However, I did not want my kid to fish with one of "Dad's" outfits; I wanted her to have her own. So we took a day trip up to Vermont one Saturday, where I spent a lot of money at Orvis. It was important for Angela to know I thought she was worth the investment.

Nothing ever works out quite as planned. Unforeseen circumstances in Angela's life and my own have not allowed us to fish together nearly as often as we had hoped this year, but we have gone off occasionally. Each excursion into the watery world of brookies, browns and rainbows has been an immensely enjoyable experience. However, the time before last was really somewhat special.

It was a Saturday morning, unseasonably cool for the month of July, and foggy. I picked up my bleary-eyed daughter around five o'clock, the hour of true commitment. We drove to the Swift River in Belchertown, specifically the catch and release section right below the Windsor Dam. I put Angela in a run that frequently houses a number of fine rainbows, then took a few exploratory casts to see if anybody was at home. Sure enough, at least one trout answered the knock on its door. Fortunately, I missed the strike.

After a few instructions on the best way to manipulate a Woolly Bugger, I left Angela to her own devices, moved downstream a hundred yards, and slipped into a slow stretch usually inhabited by fish I cannot catch. The Swift was cold--very, very cold. Normally, I wet wade from late spring to early fall. That was the plan this morning as well. Neither my kid nor I had a pair of waders between us. Poor Angela: Unbeknownst to her, she was about to be immersed in one of the weird realities of fly fishing--namely, mid-summer hypothermia.

I too was employing the services of a Woolly Bugger, either a straight olive or a black bead-head; I cannot remember which. After several casts I felt a fairly solid strike, followed by three seconds of excitement, then nothing. One angry trout and two feet of tippet suddenly disappeared down river. At this point it seemed wise to see how my daughter was doing.

"Get any?"

"None! Missed one four times, though. I'm too slow in setting the hook."

"But, you're getting their attention. That's good!"

"Yeah. You know, Dad, this is frustrating...but fun."

Frustrating, but fun--I have never heard a more accurate description of fly fishing. It so eloquently captures the real essence of our hobby. Fly rodding is frustrating: frustrating when you keep catching trees instead of trout; frustrating when you are doing everything right and the fish still ignore your fly; frustrating when the trout insist upon nailing your strike indicator instead of your nymph; etcetera and so forth. Yet, you truly enjoy every miserable second of the whole affair so much that at the end of the day your only major complaint is that you cannot fish some more.

We migrated to the big hole at the terminus of the catch and release section, just above the Route 9 bridge. This is a long, wide pool tracing a modest curvature of the riverbank. It is deep; bragging size rainbows live there. I waded in first, up to my waist. The water was not warm, and its immediate effect upon the male anatomy probably should not be described.

I was fishing in a cloud. The fog floated mysteriously upon the surface, ghost-like. Visibility made tossing a dry fly pretty pointless, so I went with the ever reliable bead-head Woolly Bugger instead. One cast--perhaps two--and I was locked into a big rainbow, rather irritated over the idea of his breakfast biting back. This was a strong fish; I had to work carefully to keep from losing him. Both the trout and I put up a respectable fight, and I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Angela was taking it all in. I wanted her to see that trout could be caught on flies, and that her Dad could catch trout.

Angela stepped in, and experienced first hand why a tailwater fishery is favorable to a species fond of frigidity by human standards. Calling the Swift cold was an understatement, trust me. The only justification for standing waist deep in stupidity was the remote possibility of enticing another rainbow. There were plenty of them, trout torpedoes cruising to and fro on an insect search-and-destroy mission. For the remainder of the morning our Woolly Buggers, along with everything else we tried, were never regarded as viable targets. There were a few passes, but no direct hits. I was a little worried Angela would be discouraged.

We fished until we froze. The primary reason we departed the stream was the need to feel our feet again. Also, I had to be somewhere later that afternoon. Otherwise, we might have stayed until we could no longer physically endure the numbness and involuntary shuddering. I stumbled ashore first, shivering and shaking. Angela said my lips were blue. She may have been exaggerating, but maybe not. She lingered for a little while and finally hobbled out herself.

"Dad," she said, "you know you're hooked when you're freezing your butt off and still don't want to leave."

My sentiments exactly.