There is a strong sense of vulnerability in this blog post. We all have our low points. We all have heart felt moments. We all have moments where life just goes our way. This blog post has all the above... and ties in to what we always say is so true for us: that fly fishing is an extension of, enmeshed in, ingrained in, and inseparable from our lives.Before we left for New Zealand, Amelia had some eye work done. She has Keratoconus, which is a slow degeneration of the corneas: rather than remain round, over a lifetime they become cone shaped and thin to the point - worst case scenario - you may end up needing corneal transplants. She had a relatively new procedure done about 3 or 4 weeks before we left for New Zealand that has shown to slow or cease that degeneration. About a week prior to leaving, she had a follow up at her optometrist and her eyes were considerably worse than prior to the procedure due to the corneal cross-linking treatment and riboflavin additive to strengthen her corneas. Things usually get worse before they get better, so this way expected.
Anyone see what could possibly go wrong with embarking on 3 months of sight-fishing in New Zealand?
(
Her eyesight has gotten better since, the surgery knocked it back and she's gotten way better).
We knew it was going to be a little difficult at times of our trip, but up against -40C and the dark winters of Alberta, Canada, we weren't foregoing New Zealand!
Once we arrived, at the start of this year's trip, we decided to try to get the smallest of things corrected in Amelia's fishing. I've long thought Amelia was a good fly fisher, but there were subtle little things here or there that could take her to being a great fly fisher, and a lot of it has had to do with letting the killer instinct take over and allow her sub-conscious do the things in fly fishing that need to be done, in order that her present mind could pro-actively anticipate and adjust to ensure that the situation and fish didn't control the show. It's subtle, but a world of difference that few fly fishers get to.
Yes, we decided to do the above at the same time as her eyes were recovering.
Genius.
The first three weeks of our trip to New Zealand were good weather. It was a mix of sun and cloud and the wind came and went. There were some cold, windy days where it didn't quite reach double digits in the high country. But we really got on a roll, and Amelia was working into some of the subtle improvements nicely. Honestly, we didn't miss much - to the point it was a little tedious.
About 2 weeks into our trip, we fished with a new fellow, Jack, whom we wound up befriending and fishing with again later in the trip. We'll touch on that later, but the first time we fished together, it's important to say that we nailed everything we touched. At that time of the trip, Amelia was calling Jack over to have a go at fish that we sighted as she was literally nailing everything and wanted to make sure that he was getting in on fish equally. About the only thing she was not excelling at was casting into the Nor'wester wind. She got by though and she was certainly catching the fish.
About a week after fishing with Jack, Amelia and I were fishing the back end of a paddock. We were on our way out and we took turns closing electric fence gates. Amelia was closing one. I'd walked through and saw a narrow ditch covered in grass. After the long day, I didn't say anything and assumed she'd see it. Nope! She turned and fell up to her mid thigh in the ditch. To make matters worse, there was an old fence post in it and it jammed her thigh. She was left with quite a skid mark and deep bruise on her thigh. The next 2 weeks were brutal on her as she recovered.
About 10 days after her boo boo, the rains came in. Hard. For the next month and a week, literally every 18 to 72 hrs a <relatively> major rain front came in. The worst was one deep low that dropped over 600mm of rain (think 24 vertical inches) fell in about 20 hrs. Most fronts had 100 (4") - 300 (12") mm as they came and went. It wasn't so much the rain and high waters (you can always find clear water to fish in New Zealand, even after 24" of rain) that became an issue as the cloud. Perpetual cloud.
Let's go back to Amelia's eyes. It was one thing to have her eyes not focus as well. However, the one thing that quickly became apparent was contrasting situations were difficult for her to see well. 5 weeks of cloudy skies didn't help as the glare on the water gave her fits, drove her nuts.
Through the dark, dull weather days, Amelia's eyes took over. I noticed her concentration on the finer points we'd worked on slowly gave way while she fished. Going away was the subtle mend as she laid the line out. In its place was the oft repeated "I can't see my fly" or "I can't see the fish" as her fly drift. She began to focus on the optics ans less on allowing her subconscious deal with the fundamentals. And the slightest of currents would slowly take over her drift. Sometimes her eyes would play tricks on depth perception and she'd land the fly 6" upstream of the fish instead of the 2 or 3 feet, her eyes and the contrast obviously taking the toll. It got to the point that her feel of the rod in her casts was sometimes replaced with being so focused on
seeing what was going on rather than simply
feeling. And honestly, it was difficult to watch the downward trend. She was still getting takes from almost
every fish, but the difference was that
she was inducing short takes or worse, downstream takes which she sometimes didn't see. If you know anything about visual, downstream takes, you know you have to have a keen eye to see the turn: to not wait and see the trout turn leads to a clear miss. If you can't see in the glare, or are having a tough time focusing, it's a killer. So, what was causing her to have these subtle errors was compounded in that she couldn't anticipate, adjust, nor compensate for the errors caused by them.
On last year's trip, she went 3 and a half weeks without missing a fish. It was likely the most amazing run I've ever seen from anyone I've ever fished with. She didn't miss a single one. Fast forward to this trip and she likely got a take on 80 - 90% of the fish on the back half of our trip, but I bet you she missed 1/3 of them because she couldn't see the take or because her depth perception was off, inducing a bad take.
(I know, we're nit-picking here because she still caught a ton of fish and we do get pretty high results in New Zealand, of all places. But when your standards are high, they just are) And it got to her. I'll admit it got to me, it was tough to watch. Honestly, my fishing also took a bit of a hit as well. Not that I was missing fish nor doing anything poorly... my
intensity and desire to fish waned slightly. When you know your spouse isn't going 100%, your desire to put the hammer down and fish hard yourself wanes. It does with anyone truth be told. If I'm fishing with someone who isn't as experienced or not as likely to have good success I've always tended to give way, passing up fish or turns at fish to their benefit. Sometimes many, many fish in a row (
you just want for people to be successful and joyful while fly fishing!). Most people are oblivious when I do give way, but Amelia certainly wouldn't be! It was really, really odd... strange... to find myself remotely thinking this way with Amelia.
It got to the point that when we again fished with our friend Jack with 3 weeks to go in our trip, her confidence was wavering and now he was trying to help her with a couple of things. That's nothing against him at all, but it was very telling that
at the start of our trip she was calling him over to catch fish, and now he was helping her even feel a cast into the wind. It was a subtle difference but knowing my wife well, I could see it plainly.
The pinnacle came on a spring creek we were fishing during a back country raft float of a larger river. It wasn't an easy day of fishing. The browns were doggo in the main river (literally still as can be, not feeding, maybe looking at a fly if it came within 6" of its head as it sat along the rocks on the bottom of the very recesses of the tailouts in the warm water). By the time we got to the spring creek, our patience wasn't great for doggo fish. The spotting conditions were so-so as we waded upstream into a mixed sunset. We came onto more doggo, yet slightly spooky fish in the lower reaches. We eventually landed a nice 7lb brown a little further up, finally finding an actual feeding fish that I presented a wee nymph to.
It was Amelia's turn. Her confidence in a straight ahead cast with heavy bush behind us was iffy. Having gone 6 weeks of tough lighting and sighting and not being perfect as she & I have come to expect of her(self), she was now relying on me and/or Jack to tell her what was going on. It is a massive difference to have the full confidence of "I've got this" and simply step up, have faith in your gear & set up, to then position yourself in the best location, and make the simplest cast to get the fish. (
Note that I didn't say best cast - I replaced that with simplest cast because that includes the best cast and location). That was in stark contrast to her posture at that moment. She remained standing in the middle of being shoulder to shoulder with Jack and I, with me being on the downstream edge, and the shoreline was covered with heavy bush. All she had to do was switch spots with me and her back cast was monumentally clearer. She didn't see the fish Jack was pointing to in the darkening glare of the sun going behind the mountain. She saw one of the rises but not all, and couldn't see where the fish would station. And because she had been on a downward trend in confidence, her casting was at an all time low. I honestly hadn't seen her cast so inconsistent and erratic in 10 years by that evening.
She was giving way to Jack & I in casting position, spotting, and not feeling her casts... and wasn't taking a confident charge to the fish.
It was tough to watch. It had to be tough for her.
Being there, fishing with someone new, making a new friend but standing watching your wife struggle, knowing why... and not being able to say anything to help because I didn't want to make her feel less in front of someone else by saying anything to help which could have been taken the wrong way by her or Jack... it was very tough. I watched. I kept my mouth shut best I could.
To complete the sequence, on one of her casts, a drift fly she couldn't see and was waiting for help, there was a rise. In her defense, Jack told her to set. Knowing she was late, she ripped the hook set. I was watching and cringed because I had seen the rise - the fish had taken a mayfly 3 feet from her fly and even Jack had missed the location of the rise. Of course, now the fish was going to be gone for all that commotion.
It went further than that mind you. We stood silently a spell. The water was calm. Nothing happened. I grabbed the rod from Amelia as I anticipated we'd continue upstream. We all spoke of where the fish had been holding. Amelia finally was able to see the spot where it had been. I never did see it from where I was, but I flipped a left handed cast in that area and asked "where in relation to that?" Jack said "About 3 feet further up and to the left". I then looked down at my reel as I began to wind up the line. "SET!" the two of them cried out.
I had the fish, naturally. I now had 2 fish and not only did Jack not have one, but I just Trumped my wife in front of someone else at a time she was low. Not so HOO-RAY for me given I knew where my wife was at -
not at all. It was, after all, just a fish. My wife, after all, needed my support. I had to find a way of delicately giving my support to her with someone else there at a time she felt lowest about her fishing and all the factors leading to being so low.
Just to salt the wound, about 10 minutes later we came about a nice trout and it was Jack's turn. There had to be a fish in the run we were coming to. None of us saw anything. I decided to walk around, staying low. I was 3/4 up the run, toward the shelving riffle at the top, walking painfully slow. In the glow of the yet light, blueing, twilight sky I saw a gold slithering arch of a gorgeous brown turning to take an emerging mayfly 3 feet off shore. I called instructions to Jack and on his first cast the dry went down, the fish sucking the dropper nymph. Exciting! Jack had an amazing trout of 8 1/2 pounds. It was a stunning fish that was an awe-inspiring moment for all of us. What a creek. What an evening. It was stunning. We all took a lot of joy in Jack's fish and the air electric. We were all buzzing. It's still amazing to see Jack's fish in our photos.
From my perspective, and to Amelia's credit, more because it's who she is and not that she would even consider sulking, she was as excited as anyone about Jack's fish. It was amazing. I've fished with one or two people who, if things don't go their way, you don't even want to fish until they catch something... anything... for their sulking, simmering anger, or tense silence - and those types usually can't even see it in themselves. Amelia doesn't have such a bone in her body.
It was getting a little late in the day - it had been a long one as we'd pre-shuttled the cars, put the raft in the river, floated 6 hrs, and fished a few hours up this spring creek. If we saw another trout, it was Amelia's. And this is where I give Amelia all the credit in the world. The biggest compliment I can give her and the thing I admire the absolute most in her is
her tenacity in pursuit of a positive end goal. She was down but no way was she done.
We walked upstream in the glow of Jack's cracker of a brown. I'd say that you couldn't have had a more amazing evening, except that I knew that while Amelia was glowing for experiencing Jack's fish, that she was wanting a turn-around herself. Not 100m above Jack's fish, I saw a rise for the ages. There are browns that move water...
and this was one that was moving water. Jack & I stationed on the opposite bank and with the dark, bush reflection, could see the fish's every movement. It was going to town... no insect was making it downstream. Amelia was in the water, we were calling out its movements, left, right, up, down... waaaay across. Knowing my wife, I knew the energy in her was palpable, consuming.
It was time.
Her cast landed to its right. The elk hair caddis a perfect silhouette against the now steel glare where she landed it. For both Jack and I, we'd seen the fish in the glare free water to the left. We both commented later that all we saw was the fish, saw it turn as the fly landed, and then disappeared in the glare. Jack and I both excitedly called (shouted?) out "
HE'S COMING!!!"
I hadn't learned the lesson. Amelia neither. She or I could have set a boundary and simply said that "she's got it, so don't say a word". In fact,
she needed to. But, she didn't have that poise and both Jack and I wanted to help her. Instead, our calling out so excitedly no doubt froze her rod tip in the air rather than lowered on the water, leaving tip slack - I guarantee it. Her hook set... ugh! Her hook set zipped through the HUGE lips of the large brown as it broke the steel surface.
She missed? It missed? She missed. No matter.
It was a heartbreaking moment as nothing came of the hook set.
I had my face in my hands. I mumbled, hissed, exasperated, to Jack "
That was the fish of the day!"Actually, it was a moment in my wife's life I was happy to be present for. And this is where I admire her most. She knew she was bottomed out. She knew it was on her to pull herself out. And she needed a lucky break to help.
And she got it.
The fish began rising once again.And she stepped up. She turned to Jack & I and said "Don't say a word. I've got this".
Jack and I shut our traps.
The line sang through the guides of our Helios. The line shot with a zip I'd not seen in a few weeks. It laid out perfectly, gently. The fly landed two or three feet from the fish - perfect for New Zealand. Jack & I were silent as we again watched the fish disappear from the window into the glare. The brown's head broke with a slurping pop.
The sound of the fly line etching the smooth surface of the steel surface filled the still air.
And it was only replaced by three people breathing as the rod went tight and all hell broke loose!
I'm not sure if Jack picked up on the tension. He couldn't have possibly known the downhill slope Amelia had been on or why, though there were clues in a few dropped fish. And I guarantee that when that fish finally came to the net that he had no idea how much that fish meant to Amelia, to me, to us... he had no idea how much that one photo he took meant and what it represented in our fishing. As I somehow scooped the fish as I slipped on the oily rocks, I turned with the monster in the net and
Amelia literally jumped in my arms. Happy?Her poise had returned. She'd had enough. She stepped up. She did everything right. I didn't say a word. I didn't have to coddle her like I had to with one fellow I fished with, who failed miserably in New Zealand, unable to catch a sighted trout for 5 weeks, pouted mercilessly, and had to resort to deep nymphing under a bobber to catch trout. She stepped up. She made the choice to take charge.
And that's what impressed me most.It didn't matter if the fish was a hair under 10-1/2 lbs, it was her poise and fight to the best possible end result that mattered.Now, it's not like her eyes magically got better over night for the rest of the trip. She dropped a gimmie rainbow in a back eddy the next day due to optics (a short cast induced a downstream take and poor hook set) and needed help sighting another rainbow that evening in the contrasting light. BUT, things certainly got a lot better. By the end of the trip she was spotting very well for me. Of course, the weather also improved and that helped. While her eyes remain on the mend, and still slightly off, we look forward to the benefits of the eye procedure that slows the impacts of Keratoconus.
I guess I write this as an encouragement to anyone who might be going through a difficult time, either in life, in fishing, in health, or maybe feeling emotionally or mentally down. Life gets us. It just does. We aren't alone in that. We all go through something. All we can do, all we're called to do... is persevere the best we can. We all ask for help in our own ways, to feel connected, to do what we need to do to continue to persevere. And it's also in us to keep persevering with those around us that might be going through such an experience in life. I know it's contrite to compare a "
woe is me I can't catch every fish" to someone who's depressed, has cancer, or has something going on in life, but the principle is the same: remaining committed to each other and persevering. I know in our future that a health issue will befall one or both of us. I'm also lucky enough to know that I'll have someone beside me that will be tenacious to the best possible outcome of the situation every day of that journey. And she has that as well.
We thank our guests! Because of your kind words and reviews of our service, we were awarded the Orvis Endrosed Expedition of the Year Award for 2013! This was the third year in a row we were nominated for this award, winning twice and runner up once! Once again, we remain the first and only Canadian company to win this award, with only one other company ever winning an Orvis Endorsed award in the 27 years of existence (and congrats to Camp Bonaventure in Bonaventure, Quebec this year!)
