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A Cast of Thousands
Wading down a freezing cold river Spey the other day my mind began to wander. Was it just old age, hypothermia, or was my mind absently longing for a warm fire and a glass of of something amber without ice in it. Fish were few and with little else to focus on I critically analysed each cast realising that perfection in casting comes all to infrequently on a cold windy day, but when it does it can be so sweet.
The line sails out across the river, the last of the running line shoots out, the fly turns and the line settles on the river with barely a ripple. Would that every cast could be that majestic. Over the years, whether salmon fishing or casting a dry fly to timid trout I have experienced moments of delight and of sheer frustration, moments when a cast went so well it deserved to take a fish but did not, moments when a cast went very badly but did take a fish. On the latter occasions, rather like a petulant boy in receipt of an excellent gift but not the one he wanted, I felt less than grateful, the pleasure of the catch being diminished by the inept cast.
Salmon fishing in particular leads to moments of reflection, the process of fishing being more sedate, the likelihood of taking a fish being much less frequent than when trout fishing. The art of Spey casting is something that at times I become fixated with to the point of wanting to cast a good line, a long line, an accurate line rather than fishing the fly where there is more chance of taking a fish! Foolish I know but one must derive some satisfaction from those fishless hours, days and months described as salmon fishing.
How many anglers do not identify the need to separate the pursuit of the fish from the techniques of that pursuit, practising the art only in “live firing situations”, making his or her duff casts not on the training ground but when covering that once in a lifetime fish; casting too far or too often because he or she is practising casting rather than getting on with the fishing that has been paid for? To this charge I can all too often plead guilty.
It is only recently in my life long fascination with fly fishing that I have taken to casting practise in fields or in the pond in a local amenity park. Admittedly it raises eyebrows and passing dog walkers protectively call small children to heel whilst fumbling for their mobile phones with a view to calling for professional help such as PC Plod or the local shrink, but practice makes perfect and I persevere because I am now seeking to improve my casting skills off piste as it were.
Sadly lone practise in a field or by a pond is repetitive, possibly even boring but is it not possible that the art of fly casting could become a fun sport in its self, not just for the Herculean demonstrators at game fairs. I wonder if in future we might find ourselves visiting the casting range like golfers do, learning new techniques, receiving coaching, developing distance and accuracy and stealth, ironing our our glitches in practise rather than when we should be catching fish! Indeed I often wonder if the pursuit of fish could become secondary or superfluous to the art of casting a fly?
I believe it is entirely possible that casting a fly could become a sport in its own right. Fly casting has art, it has finesse, it requires technique not brute strength lending its self to men and women competing on a level playing field. When the snow is on the ground or the river is out of sorts one might indulge in a practice session or take part in a friendly distance or accuracy competition, if there were suitable facilities.
As I waded down through the icy waters of springtime Spey, my mind began to speculate about the possibilities of our local heated swimming baths!
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