The Rookie

As we rolled up next to the truck parked along the shore, I could feel it starting already. I hadn’t fished with Andrew in a long while, and it was about time. He came around the side of the truck flying the bird at us with a big goofy grin on his face, and I knew today’s ball busting would be epic. We were fishing this particular little lake in western Wyoming for two reasons—the more important being that we were in some seriously ugly runoff, with every river around blown out and barely fishable.

Somewhat less important was the addition of the rookies, a couple of brothers from Utah who were along for the day and who seemed to have the worst timing of anyone I have ever met. Whenever they showed up, their fishing time coincided with some terrible conditions for one reason or another. I’d never seen either land a fish, but they’re good buddies—who am I to discourage?

Fishing with a newbie can be interesting. Some get it right away, and some might never, but introducing someone to this silly sport of ours is quite rewarding—if you can get past the frustrations of dealing with poor casts, miles of tangles, and the occasional new piercing.

Hey, I said rewarding, not easy. Time and time again I’ve sworn I’ll never take another rookie out, but I usually forget my oath by the time the next hopeful newbie rolls in. Yes, some talk too much, incessantly questioning what we think should be common knowledge. Others get mad at you, probably because they didn’t take into account the fact that they haven’t got a clue. A few will just plain give up and sit on the bank in awkward silence. But every once in a while, one of them turns your expectations upside down.

Eric, the elder of these two rookies, decided it was his mission to get to the water first. He threw together his borrowed rod, strung it up, reached for the first fly box he saw, and tied on a gigantic prism diver.

“This cool to use?”

It was about all Andrew and I could do to keep it together as he trotted off to terrorize the little stocked rainbows. After a few minutes of spectacular failure, we decided to have mercy and let Eric in on the situation—he was a bit confused at first when we asked if he’d caught any pike. Slightly miffed but taking it in stride, he proceeded to switch flies and still caught nothing. His younger brother Scott thought this was about the funniest thing he’d seen and proceeded to dish out the abuse; I don’t think he caught anything either.

Eric hadn’t said too much while fishing after the Pike Fly Incident, but he was keeping a close watch on Andrew and me. I wasn’t sure whether he was disgruntled or suspicious of another prank, but the morning passed without much input from him. After grabbing lunch, we changed locations. I needed some good fish badly, and the little stockers weren’t doing it. We headed to another lake I’d been eyeing for a while, thinking there should be some big boys in it—I worried the brothers were fed up by now and would rather grab a beer instead.

At that next spot, I realized that Eric’s earlier silence had nothing to do with the prank we’d pulled on him. He’d just been preoccupied with watching Andrew and me as intently as his own flies. He wanted to figure out what we were doing right, so he kept his mouth shut, watched, and listened. Apparently he was able to filter out the bullshit we were throwing about and learned something, because I was a few dozen yards down the bank and headed for a promising pocket when Eric let out the loudest “holy shit” I’d heard in a while.

I turned in time to see an enormous bow launch out of the water and come crashing down like a whale. After he fought the violently thrashing fish like a pro, I tailed the largest rainbow I’d ever held while he fumbled for his camera with shaking hands. A few pictures later, he let a solid 12 pounds of pissed off trout slide back into the weed-choked lake. I swear I could hear karma chuckling over my shoulder—it was my turn to be the brunt of the jokes. The rookie had schooled me in a major way, and I proceeded to hook nothing for the rest of the day.

I’ll probably never forget the fish or, more importantly, the look on Eric’s face when it was finally in his hands. It’s times like these that make all the rookie moves, lost flies, and tangled lines worth dealing with. I swear it makes the beer taste better, too.

When he’s not tying flies or building rods, Chris can be found prowling the waters of western Wyoming. He also maintains a blog of fishing exploits, photos and anecdotes at www.fishindog.net.