Fly fishing is my life. Ever since the first time I had a rod in my hand, I knew that this was my passion. Last summer, my grandpa invited me to tag along on a fishing trip to the greater Yellowstone area. It was perfect fishing weather the whole trip. One of our destinations was the renowned Madison River near Livingston, Montana.
It was late in the day, and I was beginning to get extremely frustrated with the way things were going. The roaring river was at its peak due to mountain glacial run off and this was making the fishing very technical. Every time I would hook a fish, it would immediately snap off due to the raging current and incredibly delicate tippets. My grandpa was showing off his mastery skills by landing every single trout that slurped his masterfully hand-tied fly. I decided it was time to use every co-angler trick in the book to one up the “Fly King.”
I opened my fly box and looked through the assortment of imitations. A pheasant tail, that I had tied in advance before the trip, caught my eye. Earlier in the day, I found that there were many stone fly nymphs in the river so the choice of fly seemed logical. I tied that fly onto the end of my delicate tippet and made a skilled roll cast into a rifle. My white strike indicator bounced as it flowed with the slightly off- colored water. Right before it got to the end of the drift, it was jerked violently under the surface. I instinctively set the hook into the surprisingly powerful fish.This jolted my arm with great force. The reel screamed for mercy, as the fish made a powerful run towards the center of the raging whitewater. The feel of the fierce head-shakes of brutal run towards heavier water. I hollered for my grandpa to guide me through the tango with the monster at the end of my fly rod. Arms growing weary, I held my pole as if my life depended on it. I peered down at my lustrous fly reel. To my surprise, I was almost out of main line! This was the first time that I had seen the backing on my reel since it was spooled. This made me want this fish more than ever. Grandpa encouraged me as the action pushed on. I was beginning to wear out, even though I knew that sooner or later the fish would weaken. As time wore on, I felt the fish begin to slow down. My hands assumed the position to start the grueling task of hauling the monster from the whitewater it got itself into. I reached into the back pocket of my vest and grabbed my wooden net as the fish drew near. The fish erupted the surface of the water, splashing it all over my jacket. Using one hand to hold the rod up high, I scooped the creature. I peered at the fish through the teardrop shape of my net and wondered how I had landed this amazing trophy. Grandpa pulled out his water proof camera and told me to hold the fish up for a picture. Usually when I take a picture, I have to fake a smile but this time it was different. After a quick snapshot, I unhooked the fly from the trouts jaw and released it back into the murky abyss to fight another day.
This photograph now hangs proudly on my wall with several other memories. Every time I have people over, I can look back at my trip with my grandpa and the amazing times we had over the summer of 2011. I will never forget the day I landed the stunning brown trout in Montana.