Rising early Sunday morning to Head East, I assumed my fishing luck of the past month would build today. It didn't. I caught nothing. What's more, I'm not completely sure I even got a bite.
But I loved the wading! It was very liberating to look up or downstream, locate a piece of water I wantged to fish and then just walk to it. What a concept.
I parked North of a bridge on Cedar Falls Road and hiked down a slim path to the abundantly clear Snoqualmie. It was overcast and cool. I tied on a dry fly, slid down the river bank and enjoyed my baptism in Simms Freestone waders.
The current was brisk but the waters are still low this time of year. I walked upstream casting into riffles and pools. Nada. The dry fly offered some bright white, which I hoped would stand out a bit in the grey.
I gave up and drove to an access pointn off Tanner Road in North Bend. I tried the dry fly there, switched to a drab nymph and then cast concern to the winds -- I threw a big, blazing fly. Same result, nothing. I worked pools, seams, riffles, rapids, you name it. Nothing.
On my first day in waders I came away with this observation. Flyfishing should be an Olympic sport. It is a real sport. I am a runner, yet I was impressed with how physical it is to climb the bolders, wade up swift currents, keep your balance on an obstacle course. All the while the fly fisherman is looking for promising water, thinking about the right fly and presentation. Good flyfisherman are good athletes.
Like an athlete, I keep asking myself today why nothing worked? What did I do wrong. Today was not a 'game' day but I did get in some good practice.
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