The Fine and Precise Art of Fly Fishing

By Thomas K. Remington

Fast forward about 25 years to the mid 1980s and our group of anglers made our annual trip to Nesowadnehunk Lake, camping at the Wilderness Campground on the southern end of the lake outside Baxter State Park in north central Maine.

We usually spent most of our time fishing the big lake but one year we had brought canoes as well as small motorboats with the idea that perhaps we would venture into Little Nesowadnehunk Lake. Little N. was accessible by foot only with a not-so-far canoe carry - not so far when you are only in your thirties and in great shape.

We carried our canoes and gear in to the lake and headed for the southern shore where the water seemed the calmest. What a nice setting and we were the only ones on the lake.

Little Nesowadnehunk Lake is a designated (I assume it still is) trophy trout fishing pond and is managed accordingly by the Maine Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife. Back then, it was of course fly fishing only - not fly casting, no trolling, none of that stuff. It was you, your flyrod, a fly, the lake and a trout hungry enough to pounce. It was a purists dream come true.

Our private fishing experience was short lived as another two boats approached us from the eastern shore. Sporting camps on big Nesowadnehunk Lake owned a small boat house on the little lake and kept row boats there for their guests. If my memory serves me correctly, any guests coming to the Little had to be accompanied by a guide.

The story I am about to tell would drive any so-called fly fishing purist absolutely nuts. They despise it when someone without a clue as to how to fly fish and without the finest of equipment catch fish. For the rest of us, it’s a hoot.

One boat, occupied by a guide and one fisherman - and I use that term very loosely - rowed to within about 75 yards of where my buddy and I were fishing. The action was slow at best. It was really too late in the morning. The sun had climbed high in the sky that was absent of any clouds. But we persisted.

My attention quickly became directed to the rowboat. It didn’t take long to figure out the “dude” in the boat was a greenhorn. Suffice it to say, he had never wet a line in his life. I got comfortable to watch.

God bless the guide. I think this was the revealing time to me that I really never wanted to be a guide. Patience and being nice are two commodities I was never blessed with.

The guide slowly and methodically doled out instructions to his student. It was very comical. In all honesty, when I was learning I wasn’t that bad. I don’t think this guy could walk and chew gum at the same time.

My fishing partner was losing his patience because this guy and his guide had managed to abuse the water something terrible, to the point our canoe was actually rocking a bit. He wanted to move on and I wanted a bag of popcorn, peanuts and Cracker Jacks.

As the student attempted cast upon cast, his frustration level grew and became noticeable to all of us fishing nearby. What I was aware of early on was the guide had tied onto this guy’s line a white Wulff about the size of a softball.

The fine and precise art of fly fishing is one that few master, I guess. Like I said before, I’m no purist and I’m not a master but I do know that presentation of fly is important. The theory goes that the fake thing tied on the end of you line, wet or dry, is supposed to resemble something in nature that fish like or that makes them angry enough at that they will strike.

The dude was dry fishing. The white Wulff was supposed to be presented on top of the water. The size of this fly when laid out on top of the water looked more like one of those snowballs that Hostess makes as a snack cake.

Cast after cast, this guy struggled. Several times as the instructor would tell him to release some line through his control hand, he would release everything, rod included, into the lake. The guide was earning his money as he repeatedly scrambled to retrieve the rod and reel before it completely sank out of sight.

As I watched and giggled, I had nearly had enough entertainment for one day. Besides, nobody in our group was catching any fish.

Just as I was about to turn and paddle to a different location, this guy made a cast. The snowball sized Wulff flew through the air. He released some line from his hand and I would estimate about a good 100 feet or so of floating flyline laid in a snarled up mess about three feet from the edge of the boat.

The fly continued its journey through the air, caught up in a light morning breeze and floated ever so slowly, like in slow motion, down toward the water. The sucker on the other end is trying to retrieve his line and untangle the mess as the fly meets the surface of the water. It was an absolute thing of beauty.

I don’t think anyone, purist, master or idiot, could have presented a white Wulff as perfectly as this one was. It was one that could have made the front cover of Fly Fishing Magazine.

As a matter of fact, the presentation was so good a brook trout about the size of my right leg, erupted from the water in such a violent act, every head on the lake turned to see who fell in. As quickly as it happened, the trout headed for the bottom with his meal taking tangled line with him.

There was a lot of scrambling that went on in that boat for a while. I knew, as did everyone else on the planet, that that brookie was long gone. The guide managed to get the rest of the line untangled while all the rest of us poured through our fly books looking for a giant white Wulff.

When the now famous fisherman got his line to a point he could reel it in, I heard him say to his guide, “Oh, goddamnit! Now the gd thing is hooked on the #@*^!@& bottom. The guide took his rod and pulled and that’s when he noticed it pulled back. He handed the rod back to the dude and told him he had a fish on.

We all watched in wonder and amazement as the guide successfully coached his student to land the trout. My estimations as well as others, put the fish in the mid-twenty inch range in length and a good 7-8 pounds.

I hung my head and paddled back toward shore. Once again the fine and precise art of fly fishing won out.