Rob, a burly ex-cavalry scout who became a fishing guide after his last tour of duty, keeps telling me not to break my wrist on my back cast. My line, coated in metal, is moving back and forth over my head in ever increasing loops as I try desperately to place the tiny fly somewhere near the river. Rob explains that he tried several jobs after serving in Iraq but nothing much made sense to him until he decided to just head outdoors. He is a gentle giant of a man with a red beard. My four year old son, Cole, refused to get on a pony until he had Rob by his side. Something about the calm of the man soothed the little boy’s fear. They marched around and around the ranch as Cole pestered Rob about veterinarians and whether or not horses have to get shots like four year old boys do.
“Move your arm from ten o’clock to two o’clock,” Rob tells me in no particular rush. “Hold it like a tennis racket but jam the butt into your wrist. Try to make the back cast a bit more aggressive than the forward motion to keep the line together.”
I keep hitting weeds behind me. Fly casting takes a light touch that my city brain can’t quite fathom. Rob ties a piece of leather around the rod and my wrist to force them become one. My line maintains a tight curl and, for once, extends out over the water and drops perfectly. I watch the fly floats downstream just waiting for a brown trout to mistake it for the real thing and attack.
Despite my best efforts, no fish take notice. I do hear screaming up river, however, as my 13 year-old son Seamus lands a monster. He has long ago become the angler in our family. I arrive just in time to expect the beast before Seamus drops the fish back into the Smith Fork.
“Nice fish,” Rob tells Seamus in a tone that seems to convey much more than the size of his trout.
