Picking Flowers
By Breck Miller, a.k.a. "Deeky"

This was going to be a great day!  I was out with some new flies on new water looking for the ever (not so) elusive pan fish.  Bluegills are always a blast.  Throw in the occasional bonus crappie this time of year and you are set to make memories.  I had "found" a new lake that had a great deal of structure, including both lily pads and submerged timber, which is actually fairly hard to come by around here.  But that certainly wasn’t the case on this lake. 

As I launched the boat at the small, semi-primitive and largely unused landing, I looked down through the crystal clear water (another rarity in early July in Minnesota) and could see the monster 'gills and crappies hovering at the edge of the lily pad mat, just waiting for that little bug to fall into the water and become easy pickings.  My eyes were drenched in beauty as I looked up from the fish to the lush green mat of lily pads dotted with white and yellow blossoms, through the lush green woods around the lake up to the deep blue, crystal clear sky above.  This was a day I could not afford to miss.  I particularly love being out when the water lilies are blooming.  They have such brilliant color and grace as they float on the calm water of the lake.  They are such that you would love to pick a couple and take them home to your wife for the bonus points you'd earn; that is, except for the $200 fine that comes with each blossom picked (should you get caught.)  Oh, well, just have to take home a few fine fish instead.

I motored across the lake to find just the right spot and began working the new fly on my beloved four-weight rod.  Fish after fish fell to the new fly and I even began throwing back good-sized fish so I could keep fishing without going over my limit.  As the day went on and the sun climbed higher, the fish seemed to withdraw a little deeper under the mat of lily pads.  This required somewhat finer casting skills to hit the pockets of open water that protruded through the green carpet of pads. 

My skills, being as they were, didn’t always allow me to hit my intended targets, sometimes catching pads around the open water instead of the fish under them.  Not wanting to disturb feeding fish under the snagged pads I would give a little effort to free my fly, and then break the fine tippet I was using to simply re-tie another of the magic fly and renew my assault. 

It wasn’t long, however, and I was down my last new fly.  You guessed it – the fish were still hitting and I was hopelessly snagged on yet another lily pad stem.  I sat there for a bit pondering my situation and soon decided that there was enough undisturbed lake yet to be fished that I could afford to move in and retrieve my fly from the lily pad’s death grip. 

Slowly, gently I nudged the boat in with my transom-mounted trolling motor, timing things just right so that I could cut the power, make my way over four bench seats to the bow and be reaching into the water just as the offending lily pad came into reach.  At least that was the plan.  I stopped the boat just a little short and had to reach a little longer to grab the edge of the lily pad.  Fortunately, the aforementioned $200 fine only applies to the blossoms and not the lily pads themselves.  I pulled as firmly, yet gently as I could to bring the magic fly into reach to be set free from the lily pad.  A little more reach, a little more pull, and a horrible feeling suddenly seized my body.

You know that feeling – just the slightest weight shift, and yet enough to move your center of gravity beyond the point of no return.  Everything suddenly begins to move in slow motion as every muscle, including those tiny ones on the insides of your ears, tenses up in the face of the impending calamity.  You try to freeze as your body slowly begins to swing towards the water.  Then there is the arching of the back, trying to move your weight back over the boat, only to move a few more inches toward the water.  Then, your arms begin to flail as though you can actually gain enough lift to fly yourself back into the safety of the boat.  I have become well aware that humans are not meant to fly under their own power and such attempts actually have a negative affect, pulling you down even faster, rather than lifting you up from the impending bath.  Realizing you are flying yourself the wrong way, the legs kick into action, thrashing to grab a hold of anything they can to keep from getting wet.  It is here that we learn the importance of the opposable thumb, which allows us to grasp and hold things.  Your big toe is not an opposable toe, and so lacks the ability to grasp and hold onto anything like a seat, boat rib, the gunwale, or even that little snagged thread protruding from the carpet that may be in your boat from some errant treble hook (there’s a reason most fly fishermen do not use them.)  And, finally, as your toes slip past the gunwale on the opposite thwart, your body goes limp, accepting the wet fate about to find its way into your life.

There I was, performing the perfect swan dive into the perfect little pocket of open water in the perfect bed of lily pads.  As I descended down through the water, I knew which way was up, and yet in the craziness of the moment, struggled to get myself there.  In hindsight, I really should have taken advantage of the opportunity to open my eyes and see the underwater realm from the perspective of my intended quarry, a unique perspective not often afforded fishermen.  But then, in my efforts to save myself from the bath I had neglected to take a large breath to keep me alive on my underwater journey.  Needless to say, I may have been a little frantic over reaching the surface of the water in due time. 

I came up spitting and sputtering, gasping for air, just in time to look over and see my beloved four-weight do a not-so-beautiful back flip over the edge of the boat and into the drink.  It seems that in my move from dry to very, very wet, I had managed to wrap the line, leader, and tippet around various parts of my body and pull the rod into the same wet bath I was currently not enjoying. 

Fearing the loss of the rod, I made a mad dash through the water to catch it while I still knew where it was.  It was a dash of true grace and power, driving through the water like a pro-bowl running back barreling through the opponents’ defensive line to the end zone to score the bowl-winning touchdown.  Well, it would have been, had I not accidentally found some of the submerged timber that the lake so abundantly contains.  My graceful dash to the end zone became a tragic dive with all the grace of a walrus doing ballet.  I did manage to get my hands on the rod somewhere between the surface of the water and the bottom of the lake.  My eyes were open on this dunk; yet, again, I managed to forget to look around and take in the world from the fish’s perspective.  I need to work on that one.

Again, not having a full breath of air, panic set in a second time and I thrashed about, fighting to free myself from the death grip of the lily pads around me, my own fly line, and that stupid, slippery log that was underfoot and keeping me from getting my footing.  After what must surely have been a five minute battle, I came to the surface, spitting, the lake releasing me like Jonah from the whale. 

As I checked to make sure I still had all my limbs intact and fly rod in hand, I realized I was no longer alone (beyond the few fish in the lake that were surely laughing at my expense.)  I looked up to see the local conservation officer giving me something between a glare, a look of disbelief, and a look of sheer terror at the return of the swamp thing. 

“Are…..are you okay, there?”

“Fine.  Why do you ask?”

“Looks like it’s been a rough morning.  You know it’s against the law to pick them flowers, don’t you?”

“What flowers?”

“Those lilies.  The one on your shoulder to be specific.  The one that will cost you $200.”

I looked down, and to my horror, there was a lily blossom hanging by its stem over my shoulder, just as if I had pulled it and put it there for safe keeping.

“Uh, really, I didn’t mean to pull it out.  I fell in and the rod went in and I slipped and lost my breath…..”

“So you mean you didn’t intentionally pull it out?”

At this point I made a transition from fear and respect of the law to anger at plain old stupidity.  Yes, I was using my fly rod to pull lilies out to hang over my shoulder until I got home to give them to my wife.  Makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?  What was this guy thinking?  Apparently he had had a little too much sun out patrolling our state’s waters.

“No, I didn’t mean to.  It must have just gotten caught on me and my line when I was under the water.”

“Well, I suppose if it was an accident.  Just leave it lay, move on, and we’ll call it even.”

“Let me throw the rod in my boat and get in and I’ll be on my way.” 

With every intent to leave not only the area, but the lake, I searched where my boat should have been, only to see it drifting a hundred feet away towards the middle of the lake.  Apparently, in all of my thrashing and splashing, my boat had ridden the resulting waves across the water like some pro surfer riding the pipeline.

“Officer, I’d be happy to get out of here if you could just give me a ride over to my boat.”

“You know, you should have put the anchor down or something and it wouldn’t float off on you.”

“Thanks, I’ll have to remember that.”  (Insert sarcasm here.)

So he hauled me aboard and started up the engine to idle us out of the lily pads and out to my boat.  Not much was said on that short ride.  Nothing needed to be said.  But as we pulled up beside my small craft and I began transferring myself and my rod, the CO looked at me with one final train wreck of a thought.
 
Pointing to my fly rod he said, “You know there’s no trout in this here lake, right?”
 
“Yeah, I know.”
 
“Then what are you doing with that trout rod?”

With sarcasm dripping from my voice nearly as heavily as the water dripping from my clothes, I responded, “Just practicing my casting.”

This guy was obviously impervious to sarcasm as he very plainly and matter-of-factly responded, “Well, next time you might try using something other than them there lily pads to aim for.  Have a good one.”

And with that, he motored off to find another recipient of his amazing assistance and wisdom.  I worked my way back to the launch and loaded up for the undoubtedly long ride home, not sure exactly what emotion to spew forth.  Was I feeling anger, humor, humility, or some odd concoction of all three? 

Who knows, and who cares.  Just learn from my mistake and remember, don’t use the lily pads as a target for practicing your casting.  Take it from me.

P.S.  If you ever find yourself on that perfect little lake with the perfect lily pad beds, I won’t be there.  I’m still scarred.