Yellow Breeches

June 27, 1992
Yellow Breeches, near Carlisle PA
Down the road from Kings Gap after the fish hatchery. Jill caught a 13 inch brown trout on a prince nymph on a downstream drift.

I wanted to introduce my new partner to the art of fly fishing, expecting that upon her first outing that she, like me, would come up empty handed. In my mind, I figured I could keep her busy gently flipping the fly line back and forth, back and forth in this pastoral setting, while I charged downstream to the more fertile looking water (for some reason the water downstream always looks more fertile). Here I would hook, fight, land and release one of those beautiful Yellow Breeches brown trout I'd been reading about.

The great irony is that her detachment from actually catching a fish is exactly the approach that a flyfisher needs to be successful. There is a Taoist saying “bend and you remain straight,” and Jill’s disinterest in catching a fish allowed her to focus on casting and letting the fly drift and dart through the water for the longest duration possible. Fly-fishing is very simply a method of allowing your imitation bait on a hook to drift in the water so that a fish will see it and strike.

Most successful people, in any endeavor, have the ability to focus and concentrate by limiting or virtually eliminating the emotions of fear, doubt, worry, and impatience. Watching Jill’s slow casting and mending I was certain that it would produce nothing more than snags in the aquatic vegetation and bushes that lined the stream. I had occluded the possibility of her succeeding because I had faith in my abilities and dismissed her lack of abilities. My first mistake was having faith in my abilities; my second was dismissing her lack of abilities.

What I failed to notice at the time was her relaxed nature and joy at just being in the stream learning a new skill in a new environment made her at one with the environment. Jill was attracted to the beauty and imagery of flyfishing, not necessarily in flyfishing itself. I can’t speak for a woman’s mind, but it is my impression that many women, who are attracted to flyfishing, envision themselves stepping into a Monet painting in motion, at one with the scenery and nature.

Just as I was failing to notice how easily she was letting her nymph drift between the fluttering tufts of elodea and watercress, she let out a shriek, arched her rod and was fast on to a beautiful brown trout. I raced upstream to where she was holding the rod somewhat limply and shifting it from left to right as the fish pulled the wand to and fro. She said with some alarm in her voice “What do I do?” and I excitedly said “raise your rod.”

At this point I should note my ex-wife’s love for animals. She can get stray cats to come out from underneath the foundation of a fish factory just to sniff her hand. In fact, on a visit to my ancestral farm in Ireland on our honeymoon, she heard a little kitten mewling in the bushes and was able to extract it, convince me to bring it to my father’s cousin, Joe Mears, a 70 year old cattle farmer in the nearby town of “The Pigeons” (not making that up – you can look it up its near the town of Athlone).

Joe Mears somewhat reluctantly, but kindly agreed to the request and I’m happy to say that many years afterward, his two sisters – whom we collectively refer to as the nuns (because they are nuns) sent us a picture of the cat, now full grown and chubby with a storybook calico coat.

They had named the cat “U.S.” in Jill’s honor.

This is just one story, but I’ve come to call Jill the “cat whisperer” for her innate ability to tame even the most wild and abused of cats. She has a genuine rapport with all animals. I mention this, as it had probably not occurred to Jill that a beautiful brown trout with a hook in its mouth would be a much more cruel and visceral reality than she’d imagined.

Having watched me flail in the water to no effect on several other occasions, she likely did not expect to catch a real fish, as something just short of horror crossed her face when she looked down upon the thrashing trout with its cold eye and accusing gaze as it writhed, flopped and began to wrap itself up in the tippet and leader. I was able to get a hand on the leader, which must have allowed for some slack when I moved forward, as the fish shook free. The excitement proved too much to continue fishing and we decamped from the stream to go find a place to get lunch.

On the way I pointed out a cat that had recently been hit by a car on the side of the road – a thoughtless bit of commentary on my part. Jill was still thinking about the pain she’d caused that poor brown trout and my conjuring up an image of an eviscerated cat did not help matters.

Taking the logical tack used by other fishermen didn’t help either -- no amount of persuasion about “cold blooded animals”, “lack of nerve endings” and the like could soften the pain or persuade her that flyfishing was anything but a cruel and harsh blood sport with the only result being pain and misfortune to a creature more graceful and more innocent than any human being that might catch it.

At that moment I’d realized I would not have a fishing partner as my spouse – but like most things in life you justify your decisions based on many factors. It seemed like a small thing to give up in the scheme of what I assumed would be a lifetime union.

The institution of marriage is a series of falling in and out of love with the illusions you have about yourself and your spouse. Having like interests may not be essential to a marriage -- but it sure doesn't hurt.