Fly Fishing

Fly Fishing Under Maiden Bridge (Not me!!!)

Some of my memories are like the cats eye boulder marble I used to carry as a kid…kept securely in a small leather bag in my front jeans pocket until it was time for a game. The problem with memories unlike marbles is if they aren’t taken out once in a while, they start to fade away. My memories of Spearfish Canyon Lodge are precious, and yet they are starting to dim. To slow the inevitability of its loss, I’ll write down some of what is still knocking around in my brain although probably effected by the patina of time.

In the 1950s, the Black Hills was popular with South Dakotans; Mount Rushmore was a huge tourist draw. Tiny Spearfish Canyon was sort of off the beaten track, popular with fishermen and locals. Surrounded by steep, green hills, Spearfish Creek was right next to our cabin which was only a stones throw from the restaurant and shop. I remember log cabins, wonderful evergreen trees with all their fragrance, chill air despite the height of summer, and best of all, Spearfish Creek.

Mom and dad fished…well, mostly dad. But mom had also dabbled and in fact had a pair of hip boots which fit me quite well. Dad was there to fly fish and by default, so was I. But I didn’t have a clue how to make that rod and line do their magic. I did have an old bamboo fly rod and manual reel…and a great deal of enthusiasm. I had the basics, I’d learn to cast on the street at home but the street at home did not have trees. Or rocks. Or people. Hmmm.

I had a little landing net, a creel, a couple of flies, and my rod and reel. The sun would begin to show in the east and I’d be up ready to head for the creek. The smells and sounds at sunrise in the mountains next to a fast flowing creek brought every cell in my body to full alert. I couldn’t get enough, the fish were actually way secondary. Which was a good thing…I was not a great fly fisherman.

I remember the creek was maybe twenty feet wide in places and relatively fast flowing. Some places were deep, most were not. The water was crystal clear. Dad would give me some pointers and then off he went, upstream, while I stayed relatively close to our cabin…but still thigh deep in the creek. I loved it!

I could see the trout, Brook Trout, I think. They’d look at me and pretty much ignore the flies and go about their business. If I waded too close, they’d be gone in a nanosecond. Frustrating? Yes. Exhilarating? Absolutely! I walked up and down that stream for hours. Cold legs, cold hands, fully alive in the experience. Oh…and, the trees.

Fly fishing is a bit of an art…grand gestures of hand, arm, and upper body wielding a twenty or thirty foot whip of line tipped with a small barb. The idea is to “place” the fly naturally close to where the trout might be watching, the fly would “naturally” float by coaxing the trout to rise up and swallow its prey. For beginner me…well, I caught trees. Trees were close by the shoreline of the creek and their branches provided a canopy in some places, other places were open. Of course, the fish preferred the covered spaces and the covered spaces were a natural trap for my flies. I spent a great deal of my time untangling my line, finding the very small fly lure, and often reattaching it to the leader and line of my rig.

Dad taught me a little about what type of fly worked best. I had a small allowance and went to the store at the Lodge…I think it might have been a combination restaurant, gift shop, fly shop. I looked at the variety of flies in the case, asked the clerk what people were using, and acted like I actually was catching fish. But, I wasn’t.

I don’t remember actually catching fish on those two trips, but that didn’t make any difference. I can still see them swimming among the rocks in the stream. I can still smell the pine trees. I close my eyes and can still hear the swift flow of the snow fed creek and feel its cold through the waders.

Some might ask, “Would I like to go there today to see what it’s like?” My response would be no, I like the view I have.