Learning Winter Fly Fishing

By Emily Neiley

I got into the habit this winter of getting up in the wee hours of the morning, cooking breakfast and grabbing my gear with all the speed I could muster, and arriving at my favorite tailwater a few hours before sunrise.  My friends and family were impressed by this strange behavior, so I smiled and nodded and pretended that yes, I was just that hardcore.  The scandalous truth of the matter is that I knew better than to show up at the river in broad daylight.  

You see, this winter was the first one in memory that didn’t involve a whole lot of sitting at my fly-tying bench and dreaming of spring and summer hatches to come.  I knew the basics of catching fish in winter, yes, but my knowledge was limited to bundling up and using tiny tippets and flies—the internet supplied the rest of my instruction for the tricky midge fishing ahead.    

On my first morning, the depth of my midge-flinging knowhow showed from my first sloppy cast.  And my second.  And hell, my twenty-third.  Like I said, there was a reason I was figuring this out under cover of darkness.  Long leaders and light flies had never been my forte, iced-up guides only complicated things, and if I was going to turn into a walking tangle every time the wind started up, I was going to do it when nobody was around to see me.  

By the time I could see without help from the lights on the dam, I had made peace with my rod and scared the living hell out of every fish within fifty yards of my starting-out spot.  This was all well and good, because I eventually figured out that nothing—no split shot, no lead wire, no tungsten bead—was going to get deep enough to tempt those fish into biting.  So, I headed downstream in hopes of sneaking up on a fish or two. 

I wasn’t very good at sneaking up on my first day either.  I’m glad I was alone for the first few hours of “fish-stalking,” because what I was doing was only “stalking” in the sense that it annoyed and frightened the trout I was after.  I stepped on fish.  I kicked a rock onto a fish.  I fell into a hole full of fish.  I stepped in muck and turned the pool downstream into pea soup for half an hour, scaring more fish.  

Around noon that day, another angler appeared on the bank across from me and asked me if I’d had any luck.  I let my now competent cast settle on the pool upstream, turned to him, and told the greatest fish-related lie that has ever left my lips. “Decent.” 

The fact that my acquaintance seemed to believe me made the day a smashing success! 

I continued this sort of ego-sheltering as I made more unsuccessful trips to that tailwater.  I hid from other anglers, smiled placidly at joggers and dog-walkers and made allusions to fish I’d almost hooked if I was asked any

questions.  But, as the big, ugly, obvious gaps in my fishing education began to close, I began realizing that there was only so much I could do for my angling skill under cover of darkness.  Yes, I could return to the internet and stare at page upon page of techniques for catching big fish on tiny flies.  Yes, I could watch videos and carefully observe more successful anglers from a safe distance with the aid of my now Batman-like stealth.  In fact, that’s what I’d been doing for the past three fishless weeks—the key word here being “fishless.”  Clearly, something had to change. 

And something did change—turns out, most fly anglers don’t get annoyed if you ask for help with something that seems basic.  In fact, most will appreciate the time and energy you’re devoting to the worthy cause of Not Being a Dumbass, and will be more than happy to help people who just need a couple pointers.  Plus, most will keep a straight face.  Some might laugh when you move downstream, but by then you’ve already mastered the secret wrist-flick that makes them so special.  Besides, it’s easy to learn to spot these people and wheedle them into giving you flies!