Summer is quickly fading away and we are left with the adventures and memories we made. I did a few new things this summer but one of my favorites was taking casting lessons to get better at fishing. My friend Ryan Brod, a Registered Maine Guide, agreed to teach me how to fish and was confident I could catch something. 

We set off from the dock in early-morning fog with the sun trying desperately to poke through. The air was damp as we motored to the exact part of the lake Ryan wanted me to fish. Until that point, most of my fishing consisted of wading into a stream with my friend Staci and pretending I was Brad Pitt fly fishing in Montana. It was not surprising I never caught anything. 

Ryan cut the motor, anchored the boat and took out a fly rod. He tied on a fly he made from deer hair and effortlessly cast it 30 feet from the boat.  He handed me the rod.  Holding it with my right hand, I began pulling the line in with my left, letting it coil next to my feet on the bow of the boat. It wasn’t as simple as casting and reeling the line in. I needed to get the fly to mimic a fish.  I tried again and again, trying to visualize what movements a fish would make. 

My polarized sunglasses helped me see the fly in the water as I reeled it back in each time. It didn’t feel like we had been out too long before I watched the fly disappear in the water. I pinched the line against the rod with my right hand and held the line tight with my left. I stood there not really knowing what to do but knowing something had taken the fly.  I looked like my grandfather when he was pulling ponies at the fair; lines tight and steering this mysterious thing under the boat.  

Following Ryan’s instructions, I let the line out when the fish ran and pulled more in when it got closer. Eventually it was close enough for us to haul in. Ryan knew what it was seconds after it took the fly, and was excited. It was not a small fish.  

Ryan had me sit, advised me on how to hold the fish and reminded me to stay away from its mouth. In seconds he had pulled the fish out of the water and placed it into my lap. My left hand gripped the base of its tail, my right held it behind its gills. I knew enough to hold on tight and not risk this pike flopping where we did not want it.  Ryan measured it – 36 inches.  He removed the fly and tossed the fish back. We celebrated my first real catch on a fly. 

One is good but two is better.  

I was not paying attention when the next strike came. Ryan knew it was another decent pike and didn’t want the line to get cut. This one had more fight in it. I let out more line and hoped it would stay on. When the fish was close enough, Ryan lifted the fish and I held it. The fly had been almost swallowed and was sticking out from the fish’s gills. If we had needed to, I was ready to bring the fish home with me. Instead, with the right tools, Ryan was able to take the fly out. The fish measured 30 inches. 

At the end of the day, we returned to the dock a little sunburned but thrilled with having caught the two pike. I started making a mental list of all of the gear I may need to buy if this becomes my summer obsession the way big game hunting is in the fall.  Ryan gave me the fly as a memento.  I may fish with it again but for now, it’s pinned to a corkboard next to my computer.   

Erin Merrill, an award-winning writer based in central Maine, writes “Hunt & Harvest” monthly. She welcomes emails at: [email protected].