My First Look
by Randall Thorpe

As I neared the river, I could hear it.

The constant river noise told me that my early morning walk from our farm down the mountainside was almost over. I had tried to time it so that I would hit the river just after daybreak. I had walked down this wooded hillside in the dark many times before with my Dad and my brother, and I felt comfortable in my ability to judge where I was going by the subtle clues gathered by my senses in the darkened woods.

There was just enough visible light to make my trek down the overgrown trail possible. The dark clouds overhead that added to the darkness presented me with two problems. One was the visibility on the walk to the river; the other was the possibility of getting rained out of a fishing trip. We had learned that we could walk down this hillside to the Cranberry River in West Virginia and find either a good fishing day ahead, or a flooded-out river that was so high that fishing was impossible.

The problem was that if the river was not fishable, the long steep walk down the mountainside could result in a long steep walk back up the mountainside to get home. As a teen-aged farm boy in the early Sixties, I knew to pay attention to when and how much it rained and to listen to the radio for a forecast. I also knew that if we heard the river early in our walk, we had a problem with how high the river would be for us. The volume of its roar would indicate the condition of the river.

As you walk through the woods in the time just before daybreak you must listen, look and feel for every clue that comes from the world around you. I had gambled that the dark clouds would not present me with a problem, but the first drops of rain caused me some concern. I had fished in the rain before and had, at times, done well, but  my thoughts were on how much rain had already fallen in the headwaters of the river. I listened for the river. The farther I walked and didn't hear the river, the more my fears were reduced. When I finally did hear the river, I thought I was close enough to judge that it wasn't entirely unfishable. I felt confident in spite of the beginning rain that I could fish at least part of the day.

There was an old, long-abandoned railroad grade that followed the river downstream to its mouth, where it empties into the Gauley River. Foot-thick trees and massive clusters of mountain laurel covered the long dead tracks, and the only evidence of its existence was a barely used footpath snaking its way along the top of the raised grade following the river. As I stepped out of the laurel onto the grade and took my first look at the river, I breathed a sigh of relief. It was a little high, but not anywhere near muddy, so I knew I could fish today. The rain was increasing to a soft shower, and I knew if it didn't get any worse I was in luck. I would get wet, but I might also catch some trout.

My father had taught my brother and I how to fish the only way he had been shown. Dig some worms, or find some other kind of live bait, bait the hook and chuck it in the water. We dug worms, turned over cow patties looking for grubs, and scoured old seep springs for any bait we could find. He did show us where to find the trout in the stream though. We knew about the runs, the seams, the pockets and the pools. Some of our knowledge we had gathered from Dad, and the rest had come from the Sports Afield and Outdoor Life subscriptions that he received each month. We pored over those magazines. I read about fly fishing, but since I knew no one who practiced it, I dismissed it as being not something worthwhile to try. I could catch trout the way I had been taught, so why mess with success. Dad had bought an automatic fly reel once, put it on a telescoping steel fly rod and tried to master it. After cracking the whip, breaking off his flies and having his reel malfunction to the point of no return, he left the reel lying by the river (along with some new words that he taught us) and declared fly fishing wasn't worth it for him.

I moved through the laurel to the riverbank, baited my hook and softly tossed it into the best looking lie of the hole. Nothing happened. Hmmmm. Well, lets try another spot in this hole. Nothing there, either. This was strange. As a teenaged boy, I was confident of my abilities (maybe too confident), so the problem must be with the river or some other unknown factor. I ranged up and down the river that morning with the same results - nothing. Don't get me wrong, I had bombed out before, but usually if the river was very low or very high. If the river was fishable, I should be able to catch some trout.  I remembered Dad telling me about a trip to the Cranberry in which the water was very low and clear. He could see trout in a lie, but they would not bite. He went upstream a few yards, crumbled dirt and clay into the stream so the fish would think the river was rising, and then proceeded to catch a half-dozen trout. I figured I had the same situation with the river possibly rising after a dry spell, so I just knew the fish would bite. But they didn't. I doesn't take too much of this before your ego starts to deflate.

The more it rained, the more I was fishless, the lower my spirits sank. I kept on fishing but my I my heart wasn't in it, as it had been at first light.  I was just about ready to admit defeat and slink back home with my tail between my legs when I saw him. Turning my head when I saw movement out of the corner of my eye, I was struck by the strangeness of what I was seeing. A man was walking down the middle of the river. He was carefully moving back and forth along the river, waving a long rod in measured arcs much like a conductor moving his baton to the beat of the music. My old solid fiberglass spinning rod had never been used that way. Then I noticed the line in the air. It was flicking here and there and probing places in the river that I had been unable or unwilling to reach. I realized that I was watching a fly fisherman. I had never seen one before.

I forgot about fishing and sat on a rock to watch him. It has been over forty years since this happened, and I don't remember what he looked like, but I was struck by the grace and beauty of what I was seeing. He moved purposefully and effortlessly down the river, flicking his line here and there. The quiet rain, the slight gathering fog, the trees, and the grace of his casting burned into my mind a picture that this old man can still remember. As he drew near, I had to know. "Good morning" I said. "Any luck?" "Good morning" he called back. "Not much today. I've only got six small ones so far"

Good Lord, I thought. He only had six, and I hadn't had a single bite. I wished him good fishing and he continued downstream with the same slow, graceful, walking and casting. My already deflated ego dropped like a rock and I knew I was done for the day. But, watching him as he picked his way down the river, I knew that I had witnessed something special. It didn't matter so much that I was fishless. I knew I had to investigate this sport of fly fishing. I could see that I had been wrong about it in so many ways. The grace, the beauty and the effectiveness had just been demonstrated to me. I couldn't move from the rock until he had passed completely from my sight.

It has been a fast-moving forty years since that day, but I can still remember it as if it were yesterday. Down through the years fly tying, fly fishing and photography have enriched my life so much. I haven't been able to trout fish much these last few years due to my work schedule and current location, but warmwater fly fishing is still fly fishing. I still get a thrill from the fly rod. I thank that unknown angler for helping me see the light. He was my first look at fly fishing.

I hope that if you have a chance to expose a young person to fly fishing, you will be as successful in reaching them as that unknown angler was in reaching me so many years ago.