Well said, Dana. If it went fly only there would be nothing left for massacre to save.
Life is full of little surprises, and the preconceived notions we might have about a person or a thing or a technique are sometimes jolted to the port or the starboard in unexpected ways by the unanticipated consequences of our actions. But let me explain.
In the early 80’s (I just broke my rule of saying "when") I was fishing just below the Bridge (and I just broke my rule of mentioning "where") when a float fisherman stepped in below me. Grinning at me like a good-natured baboon he corkscrewed his body in the manner of someone about to make a world-record cast.
There was no doubt in my mind he was going to get a world-record bird’s nest. This is exactly what happened. The float and the big gob of roe dangling beneath it thwacked against a fouled main line and plopped into the water ten feet past his rod tip. He made the hissy staccato sounds one would expect and immediately set about plucking great big drippy coils of line from his Silex. Meanwhile, I stood my ground and watched intently his float. Sure enough it quivered, went down, jerked sideways about a foot, then popped back to the surface. My friend missed all this. He eventually determined his bird’s nest was beyond redemption and muttering to himself, stumbled back up the trail from whence he’d come, presumably back to his truck to work things out.
Without a moment’s hesitation I ran back to my own truck and stowed my double fister. With mitts a-trembling I reached for my honey rod-- my LL Beans “Double L”, an 8 weight cane wand given to me by my godfather on my seventh birthday. I reserved it only for special occasions. I twisted the retaining ring over the foot of my Princess and fastened the ferrules together after slathering them generously with nostril oil. As I threaded its guides with a DT floater, it was all I could do to contain the bliss generated by my astonishing good fortune-- I was going to get a mighty “T” fish on an up-stream dry and I knew exactly where and when it was going to happen!
I got into the water about thirty feet below the spot where I’d seen the float go down and started working out my line, all the while slipping and sliding my way upstream on the greasy boulders. I’ll admit that all the while I was reliving my childhood, my completely happy and carefree boyhood when I used to work an upstream # 14 Royal Coachman all slathered up with Mucilin for big browns on the Housatonic just below Cornwall Bridge, wise old browns that would not be caught dead sniffing a fly that betrayed any kind of drag or unnatural movement on the water surface the way a down-stream skater would do.
Sure enough, I got my little deerhair mouse over the magic spot and just as I started the Scottish worm retrieve to collect the line floating back towards me and stay in contact with the fly I saw a slight wimpling of the water surface, like what the wing beat of a startled heron might do when you scare her off her rock.
I simultaneously heard a muted sucking sound and then Lordy!, I was fast to a fish with the Princess screaming its hysterical falsetto as only royalty can.
Ten minutes or so later, on legs all a-quiver and sucking breath through a mouth that felt lined with newspaper I snaked a 12 pound doe onto the beach. Boy was I one happy dude—I had just taken a fish on a method that as far as I was concerned, represented one of the pinnacles of my sport. As far as demanding technique goes, I likened my feat to, well, to like climbing Everest without the benefit of bottled oxygen, or so I somewhat arrogantly thought at the time.
But what was this? Rather than being in plain view behind one of the maxillary plates as it usually was, my tippet disappeared into her gasping mouth and my fly was nowhere to be seen.
Upon closer examination I saw my little deerhair mouse deep in her throat, stuck fast to one of the branchiostegals that lined the bottom of her jaw. I also could also see blood starting to well up and flow from her gill plates, the candy-apple red colored blood, highly oxygenated, not a good sign . I clipped the tippet and placed her immediately back in the water fearing the worst. After 10 minutes of nursing her she never showed the usual signs of a reviving fish and she died in my arms.
Sorry to relate but that exact same story was repeated on another river the following fall. It also happened on an up-stream dry, barbless as were all my flies, although in those days you could use barbs and kill if it tickled your fancy. Again sorry to relate, that fish was a 17 pound buck and it also died in my arms despite my many attempts to revive it..
So, should I use this opportunity and these two sad tales to make an argument for banning dry flies? We might as well consider it along with the eggs and the shrimp and the spoons and the yarn and the Gooey Bobs and the anise oil. It’s clearly a deadly method of fishing steelhead, maybe indeed a bit like climbing Everest without bottled oxygen.
I would like to say that it's just another method of catching a steelhead, no better and no worse then any other method, although it's true and sad that I inadvertently dented the resource by chosing that method on those two particular days.
Don't split up the constituency into pissed off splinter groups! There is strength in numbers and we'll need those numbers. As long as the intent is to release, Management must ultimately make a decision about whether or not the fish should be fished over or left alone. Once gill nets and seines are off the board, it is not their job to determine the gear type which is involved.
This is exactly what Management did when they decided to close the river on 31 December instead of late March back in the late 80's. Was I pissed off when they did this? Yes, I had some fantastic sport on flies in February and March and I pretty much had the river to myself in those days.
Did I begrudge Management for making a decision that basically clipped two months of fantastic fishing off my sporting career? No way, it was clearly better for the resource because Management was right-- those fish were getting enough tender loving care from all us fishermen from September through December and the decision to leave them unharrassed for the remainder of the winter was a good decision.
But heed you well, that decision had nothing to do with gear types and it had everything to do with the fish and that should continue to be the focus.
One word to the guys who feel that it all comes down to feathers: beware for you might get what you wish for.......