One cast, just one cast

Resslin' Around

Torture. That's the only way to describe the feeling to anglers in mid-March.

A cloud has not been seen for days. Last week, temperatures pushed 45 before they fell to comfortable 25 this week. The calendar says this is officially spring now, so that custom fly rod sitting in the corner needs to be taken outside.

The rod was made for me by my soon-to-be-brother-in-law in January. The sleek black graphite, green thread wraps and cork handle have called me since then, just asking to go out and whip a fly around in the driveway a few times. It is a testament to his craftsmanship, workmanship and patience — of which I have none.

"No," I remind myself. "Make the first cast count — on water, once the ice goes out. You don't want the virgin cast to be in the mud and ice. It will only get your juices flowing even more."

As January turned into February, the box of flies grew. I've been tying them for months, in every size, color and pattern. It's hard to predict what will work best in June when it is only February, but still, they got tied in anticipation of a summer spent staring at my reflection in the creeks and rivers of the Valley.

As February turned into the beginning of March, I decided I couldn't take it any longer. I made a run to the fly shop — not to buy tying materials as in the past, but to purchase some leader material and fly line.

In my five minutes of free time each day, when my 4-month-old was asleep and we were alone at the house, the groundwork was laid. First, the backing went on the reel. The next day, the fly line. A few days later, the first few knots of a leader were tied.

And then, everything came together. I peered outside — absolutely no wind, the sun was shining, the baby was sleeping and the rod was ready. "Don't do it," I told myself. "Don't do it, man. You'll wish you had waited until you were in the canoe, searching for trout."

"I have to," I finally convinced myself.

I opened the door, just a crack, when the familiar sound of my baby, Madison, crying pierced my ears. It was as if she knew what I was up to, and the fishing gods gave her a gentle nudge to wake up and keep me from casting.

The rod was broken down into four pieces, put in its case, and put away.

Another day, another time, I thought to myself.

That day turned out to be Tuesday morning. Like a kid in a candy store, a big boy with a new fishing rod just can't help himself. Again, there was no wind and no clouds, and this time, we were at Grammy's house, with her watching her first granddaughter coo and giggle.

There was no chance of Madison preventing me from getting this one cast in, just so the kinks of winter could be worked out.

The first cast brought with it the expected sloppiness, and the unexpected guilty conscience.

The next few casts felt good, despite the fact I was aiming my casts at the newspaper box and not a ripple in one of the Valley's many lakes where a fish, surfacing for an early-summer snack, awaited.

With a smile a mile wide, I kept it up for five minutes.

Occasionally, I would hit my rectangular target, but more often than not, the fly would sail wildly to the right, then to the left. The first casts of spring are never beautiful in form.

Then, just as I was getting in the groove — cast, wait, backcast, wait — I noticed my fly and half my leader had disappeared in the snow and gravel.

In a few more months, when the temperature is much warmer, it would have been the sign of a gigantic fish breaking my line, and it would have brought a smile to my face, knowing the creature had just attacked something I had tied.

In the middle of March, however, it is only the sign of lazy knots, tied in haste, just to get the first casts of spring in.

And still, it brought a smile to my face.

Casey Ressler (ressler@alaska.net) is the Frontiersman Valley Life editor. He stares at the ice on the lakes daily, hoping to be surprised by open water very, very soon.