Fly (off the handle) Fishing in America

By the summer of 1967, my brothers, my friends, and I fashioned ourselves as seasoned anglers. Pouring over issues of Field & Stream and Outdoor Life, watching the Joe Foss outdoor series, The American Sportsman on TV, we knew which fishing lures were good for catching trout, and which ones were good for catching bass. We caught no bass, but we had the best lures. We purchased some stuff called Buss Bedding and maintained worm farms. Red worms for trout, night crawlers for every other species of freshwater fish. Everything we knew and practiced was for using spin casting rods and reels (produced by Mitchell-Garcia, THE BEST, according to Field & Stream magazine).

    Cliff, one of the kids in our group, puzzled us with his declaration that he wanted to try fly-fishing. We had no experience in this mode of fishing. The equipment was entirely different. Fly-fishing uses a longer, much more flexible rod and a simple reel. Second, it required a certain level of skill to cast and place the bait – something that resembled a fly. It had to land lightly on the water’s surface. You couldn’t use a weight or lead sinker. We looked at Cliff like he had two heads. “What do you know about fly-fishing?” We asked.

     “I watched The Flying Fisherman on TV. I know how to do it.” Cliff said with great confidence, “I’m going to try it the next time we go fishing!”

    “Cliff, we are going to the Saddle River. There are no trout in that river,” we tried to reason with him.

     He squinted at us, much like a wizened old angler would, and said, “That’s because we aren’t using the right bait. Trout like flies.”

     That settled it. Cliff was going to try fly-fishing in a river known as a home for carp, catfish, whatever washed off the Route 80 overpass in a rainstorm, an occasional tire and an abandoned shopping cart or two.

     It was a beautiful late June day for our fishing excursion. Gathered in front of my house were 9 accomplished pre-teen anglers; my brothers and me, the two Garys, brothers Mike and Dean, and the brothers Cliff and Robert. With fishing rods in one hand, a tackle box in the other we lined up like a squad of soldiers and trooped off to our Saddle River fishing site. Cliff was really excited about fly-fishing. Over the course of our two-mile journey, he bragged about the fly lure he bought and talked up the number of trout it was going to catch for him. He carped against our comments about that section of the river being only suitable for carp. For the rest of the hike, we tuned out Cliff’s droning and thought about how many carp we would catch, and that Cliff would get skunked.

   Finally arriving at our destination, we broke out our gear attaching hooks and sinkers, applied our bait, and cast our line into the murky waters of the Saddle River. Typical with most fishing events involving the brothers Cliff and Robert, things were about to go sideways.

   It became readily clear that Cliff had not the foggiest idea of how to fly fish. He started swinging his fishing pole overhead in a frenetic fashion. He looked like a stagecoach driver whipping a team of horses. His fly-bait dangled but a few inches from the tip of his fishing rod. Perplexed, he switched his stance and, using both hands, started swinging his fishing pole as though it were a baseball bat. He now looked like Mickey Mantle taking batting practice. We gave him a wide berth for fear of getting snagged by the fly hook. While he was flailing away, the rest of us reeled in carp and goldfish. As a testament to the quality of the Saddle River, my brother, Ken, reeled in a discarded Wonder Bread bread bag. Inside of the bag was a live goldfish, still counts as a catch!

   Cliff finally wearied of his fly-fishing flailing and plopped down on the ground, breathing heavily, his face covered in sweat. Seeing the rest of the squad having some moderate success catching fish, he quietly removed the fly from his fishing line, attached the standard hook and sinkers, and pulled a worm from his brother’s bait can.

    Robert, meanwhile, had seen some carp jump out of the water in the middle of the river. He had caught nothing yet and attached a sinker heavy enough to enable a cast to where the fish were. He chose a pyramid shaped, 2-ounce sinker for the job. Starting his casting motion, the fishing line slipped from his finger on his backswing. The line shot straight back; the sinker striking his brother, Cliff, right in the mouth. Cliff screamed and doubled over. Robert turned and looked at his brother, dumbfounded.

    Cliff straightened and removed his hand from his face, revealing a small split in his lip. His face was red, his eyes even redder. “Robert! You bastard! I AM GOING TO KICK YOUR ASS!” His snarl turning to a screech. He charged at his brother.

    It was now Robert’s turn to screech. The only thing on his mind was flight, so he took off in the only direction he could. Into the river he ran, fishing pole in hand, the 2-ounce sinker dragging behind him, leaving a small trail in the sand. We guessed he decided drowning the better option to getting his ass kicked. Robert’s plan worked. Cliff wouldn’t venture into the river. Instead, he jumped up and down on the shoreline, howling invectives at Robert.

   For his part, Robert was able to work his way up-river past a point where the shoreline disappeared, and Cliff couldn’t follow him. He screamed back, “I’m going home to tell Mom you swore at me!” Then he climbed out of the river, covered in muck from the waist down.

   Cliff stood silently now, clenching and unclenching his fists. He turned and walked over to his tackle box to pack up his gear. “I have to go now, my mouth hurth.” His injured lips had swollen to the point where he now spoke with a lisp.

   The rest of us had enough excitement for the day, so we packed up our gear, grabbed Robert’s tackle box and trudged off towards home. We caught up with Robert. He hadn’t gotten too far. We spotted him sitting on the step of a pharmacy, crying. He saw us approaching and yelled, “I’m sorry Cliff! It was an accident.”

   Cliff was much subdued now. From his swollen mouth he lisped, “I know it was an acthident. Pleath don’t tell Mom I thwore.” We all walked the rest of the way home in silence. Cliff never attempted to fly fish again, nor did he ever bring it up in conversation.