By Clint Willis
Photography by Werner Gattinger

I wade slowly up the shallow creek, moving as quietly as I can so I won’t spook the fish. I wear boots, chest waders, vest, and a navy blue Orvis cap with a bill. I look like a fly-fisherman — and I’m starting to feel like one.

I move around a bend in the stream to a pool, where I spot a half-dozen or so trout hanging out just under the surface. The fish are pointed upstream, waiting for the current to deliver a mayfly or a spider or some other tiny delicacy.

I tie an imitation caddis fly to the end of my fishing line, using a knot I learned this morning. Then I cast the line up the stream, so that the current will carry my fly past the waiting trout. No trout takes the fly this time, but that’s OK — I can keep trying. Meanwhile, I’m happy to listen to the stream and watch my fly drift along the surface and into the quiet pool on the opposite bank.

Fact is, I didn’t expect to catch a fish right away. Anyone can catch a fish with a worm or a ball of American cheese, but fishing with imitation flies requires a minimum level of skill — even artistry. Fortunately, I’m in the process of learning those skills: This is the end of my second day at the three-day Orvis Homestead Fly-fishing School at The Homestead in Hot Springs, Virginia. The Orvis operation here at the 238-year-old resort trains around 100 fly-fishermen annually, and now it’s my turn.

Fly-fishing also requires the right conditions. For example, trout require relatively cold (less than 72 degrees Fahrenheit) and unspoiled waters with a certain oxygen content. There again, I’m in luck. The Homestead, set on 15,000 acres in the heart of the Allegheny Mountains, is home to the Cascades stream, a spring creek alive with both stocked and wild rainbow trout.

The resort also offers easy access to other trout waters such as the Jackson River and Back Creek — not to mention three golf courses (including the famous Cascades Course, which has been the site of seven U.S. Golf Association championships), a network of mountain hiking trails, a ski mountain, trap and skeet shooting, first-rate equestrian facilities, and a terrific spa. Small wonder that 22 U.S. presidents have visited the resort.

THE STREAM TEAM
I’m not the leader of the free world, but I cherish a long-standing ambition to become a bona fide fly-fisherman. I bought my first fly rod around 1990, and dabbled at fishing on streams in New York’s Catskill Mountains and Wyoming’s Teton and Wind River ranges. I picked up a little advice from friends and even caught an occasional fish on a fly — but I never really knew what I was doing.

This begins to change soon after I arrive at The Homestead on a beautiful late summer evening. I go to bed early and in the morning have breakfast and saunter over to The Homestead’s outdoor shop, Allegheny Outfitters. There I meet my Orvis instructor — Roy Sedge — and a pair of fellow students.

Roy has a head of silver hair, a pair of deep-set blue eyes, and a ready smile. His face is lean and slightly weathered, and he’s built like a runner (I later find out that he has run scores of marathons in his day). I figure Roy is in his mid-to-late 50s, but later learn that he’s 62, and has been fly-fishing for more than 50 years — since before he can remember. I also learn that he’s ex-Army (28 years), and that he retired and moved to these mountains in 1991, becoming an Orvis instructor in 2002.

Jim, one of the other students, is 54. He has fished for 30 years, but — like me — has never had formal instruction. His friend, Tom, 48, is a total beginner looking for a challenging and enjoyable hobby.

Our first day of class begins not on the stream, but in a classroom at the resort’s ski lodge. Roy commences with a methodical review of the gear that we’ll soon be using to catch fish. He talks about various types of rods, noting that flexibility varies widely. We soon move onto reels — essentially spools for managing fishing line — and then to the fishing line itself.

It turns out there are many types of fly-fishing line, described by terms such as "weight-forward" or "double-tapered." The differences matter. For example, some lines cast farther than others; some are easier to control during the cast; and some work especially well in rough water.

We learn how to stretch our line — to help avoid the nastier kinks and tangles that can occur during casting — and even how to clean it (to help it run off the reel more freely and float better on the water). We also learn how to choose the leader, which attaches to the end of the line. The leader tapers into the narrow, almost invisible tippet, which ties on to the fly.

The four of us watch a short video demonstration of fly-casting, and after a brief discussion, adjourn to the fly-casting pond (which in winter doubles as The Homestead’s ice-skating rink). We practice casting in an inch or so of water (casting on dry concrete would damage the fly lines).

I quickly develop a sore shoulder — a sign that I’m doing something wrong. Roy offers a couple of hints: Raise the rod gently on the back-cast, and keep the rod tip higher at the end of the forward cast. Soon my cast is drawing approving comments from my companions. What’s more, my shoulder feels better — so I don’t think they’re just being polite.

The afternoon brings an extremely enlightening knot-tying session. Class ends, and we three students head down to the Cascades stream for a couple of hours. Jim — the most experienced of us — catches several fish. I get a strike, but I panic and my trout spits out the fly. We head back to the lodge as evening descends. We’re all thrilled with the fishing opportunities on this gorgeous little stream, and I’m determined to do better tomorrow.

LORDS OF THE FLIES
We start Day Two with a buffet breakfast and more class time at the ski lodge. Today, we study fish habits — with particular attention to their eating habits. The fascination of fly-fishing lies partly in the challenge of choosing the right fly to offer the fish — preferably one that resembles the real flies the fish have been seeing lately. We pay close attention to Roy’s descriptions of the various flies that occur in nature — as well as the imitation versions that occur in the fisherman’s fly box. He shows us slides of mayflies at various stages of their life cycles. He tells us about caddis flies and stone flies and reminds us that trout also eat crickets, ants, and other terrestrial critters.

Next, we examine dozens of artificial trout flies — many of them hand-tied by Roy — that are designed to imitate these creatures. Most of the flies are dry flies, which float on the surface of the stream. But we also learn about fishing with nymphs (designed to imitate fly larvae) and other flies that sink when they hit the water.

By early afternoon, I can tell a nymph from a full-grown caddis fly, and I think I know a stone fly from a mayfly. We all head back to the stream. Roy issues waders and other gear, shows us a few of his favorite spots, and offers some last-minute pointers. Then he leaves us to fish on our own.

I choose a spot well downstream, and I’ve been walking a while — pausing to fish an occasional pool that looks promising — when I come to the fishing pool where I spotted those half-dozen fish and start casting. I change flies after a while, and I’ve begun to think about moving on when I feel a little jolt of energy in my forearm — a kind of jerking, increasingly frantic, that travels up my line and rod and then travels to my casting arm and elbow. It’s followed by a jolt of adrenaline that leaves me a little stunned: I have hooked a fish!

This time, I won’t lose him. I keep the rod tip high, as Roy has taught me, and I let the fish take some line before I begin gradually to bring him to shore. It doesn’t take long — the seconds race by — and the fish comes to light. He is a beautiful thing, maybe 8 inches long and gleaming just under the surface of the water.

What now? Fortunately, Roy also has told us exactly what to do when we catch one of these prizes. The Homestead School practices catch-and-release fishing, favored by many conservation-minded anglers these days. I kneel and wet my hands in the stream before touching the fish. Roy has explained that dry hands can damage a protective substance that coats the fish’s body, forming part of its immune system. I take gentle hold of the fish and turn it upside down. This disorients the fish, and it stops struggling to free itself. I grab a surgeon’s hemostat from my fishing vest, and quickly remove the barb-less hook from the creature’s mouth.

I turn the fish right side up, and gently move it back and forth in the water, apologizing for this intrusion into its watery life. I open my hand, and the trout suddenly knifes down and away. It disappears into darkness like a flashlight dropped off a pier at night. I walk farther up the stream to rejoin my fellow students, and the three of us swap fish stories. Jim has caught more trout; Tom, the beginner, is still looking to catch his first one. We get back to our rooms after dark, and I hit the sack early so I’ll be well rested for our final day of fishing.

DREAMS PER FISH
Day Three dawns, and I join Tom and Jim for an early breakfast. We’re old fishing buddies now, and we head for the river to get in some casts before Roy arrives. I wade upstream, fishing a little as I go, and come to a thundering waterfall, which empties into a large, deep pool. I decide to fish with an imitation stone fly nymph (I spotted a real one on the bottom of a rock yesterday), and on my third cast I hook a trout.

This trout feels bigger than yesterday’s fish, but it’s no match for my superior technology — my midflex rod, my floating, weight-forward, five-weight line, and my 4X leader. I work the fish into shallow water, where it thrashes while I briefly struggle to extract the hook from its mouth. I find myself talking to the fish in urgent tones — Hold still, fish. I don’t want to hurt you — and then the hook comes out and I release the trout. The fish is motionless for a few seconds. Then I blink and it’s gone.

I fish for another three hours. I catch no more trout, but lose track of time (I forgot to wear my watch) so that I’m late for our final class. I arrive full of apologies, and get the good news: Tom has caught his first trout on a fly.

Roy presents a quick slide show that includes a tour of the wide world of fly-fishing — from marlin fishing to freshwater bass — and offers a few tips on choosing a guide. He congratulates us on what we’ve learned, and closes with one of his favorite quotations. It’s from Ian Frazier’s book The Fish’s Eye: Essays About Angling and the Outdoors. "Fishing is worth any amount of effort and any amount of expense to people who love it, because in the end you get such a large number of dreams per fish."

I know what he means.

Clint Willis is a freelance writer and editor in Portland, Maine. He has pursued trout in five states: Maine, New York, Utah, Virginia, and Wyoming. His work has appeared in dozens of magazines, including Men’s Journal, Outside, and Travel & Leisure. His recent books include the anthology Writing War (Thunder’s Mouth Press).

THE RIGHT (FISHING) STUFF
A fly-fishing shop can be a bewildering place for a newcomer to the sport — the walls lined with odd-looking devices (many of them quite pricey) and piled high with waders, rods, nets, fishing vests, hats, shoes, and bins full of imitation flies.

Fortunately, you don’t have to buy everything in the store — but you do need a half-dozen or so items. Start with the rod, reel, and line, which together might cost about $250 to $500.

Make sure the salesperson understands where you’ll do most of your fishing and what kind of fish you’re going after. That information will determine factors such as the rod’s flexibility, the size of the reel, and the type of line. While you’re at it, lay down another $20 for leaders and some extra tippet material (the really thin, almost invisible material that goes at the very end of your line).

Naturally, you’ll need some flies to get started. The Homestead School’s guide, Roy Sedge, recommends a selection of around three dozen flies (expect to lose many of them in streamside bushes and under rocks). Ask the salesperson to advise you, based on the type and location of your fly-fishing. Plan to spend around $60. Other essentials include nippers (a device that will remind you of fingernail clippers) and forceps (for taking hooks out of fish as well as the occasional innocent bystander). Cost: Maybe $20. And you’ll need to spend another $60 or so on polarized sunglasses and a hat with a bill. The combination will help cut the glare on the water, so you can see what you’re doing.

That’s enough to get you fishing. Eventually, you might want to acquire boots and waders for walking the stream ($250) and a fly-fishing vest for holding things (say $40). Then there are thermometers (for measuring water temperatures), wading sticks (for getting across fast-moving water), nets (for landing big fish) … the list goes on and on. Sooner or later, you might even find yourself wanting to buy a drift boat for fly-fishing on big rivers like Wyoming’s Snake.

That said, it’s important to remember that the best gear in the world is no substitute for fishing experience. The less time you spend in the store checking out fancy gear, the more time you have to get out there and catch fish.