Fly fishing is only for old, rich, white men: A love story

Fly fishing has taken over my life as my biggest passion and a true escape from everyday life. Very often I find myself dreaming of packing up my car with all the essentials, including but not limited to; 4 rods, 5 reels, 5 or more fly boxes stocked with all new flies, sandwiches, cheap beer, a camera, and maybe an extra rod, just to spend a few hours on the river watching the water run by. I may eventually tie on a fly and try to catch a fish. But during my days spent on the river, I have reached one massive conclusion: fly fishing is only for old, rich, white men.

I find my mind wandering from passing birds, to the sound of the water crashing over a waterfall, but always returning to a recurring thought: fly fishing is boring, only until it isn’t. Standing on the side of a river in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado is nothing short of a waste of time. The feeling of tying and untying ‘wind knots’ while a 20 inch rainbow rises to stoneflies 20 feet up river can only be described as infuriating. 

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I tie on my favorite golden stone imitation and cast the perfect cast, mend upstream for the perfect dead drift. Of course, all the powers in the universe would dictate that this specific fish was already on to me and would deny my immaculate presentation. However, for some reason unbeknownst to me, she took the fly on my first cast. 

This massive hen fought hard and my reel made that annoying sound of drag being pulled out when she went on a short run, but eventually she reluctantly made her way into my net. After hours of walking up and down the river I finally found what I came for. Which wasn’t actually the fish at all, it was the patience that it took to find the fish in the first place. The kind of patience that you only see in old, rich, white men.

After spending the entire day on the South Fork of the South Platte River, and swatting countless mosquitoes off my brow, I decided that it was time to sit down for a somewhat-chilled beer to wait out the last few minutes of light before the evening hatch. The day was successful, nothing spectacular, but deserving of a celebratory beer nonetheless. Times like this make you think, was this all worth it? 

Throughout the day I had accumulated at least 10 times as many mosquito bites as a did fish in the net, lost just as many flies, and maybe even cursed a few times at the innocent willow or bush for simply existing. The sun was hot that day, hotter than it normally is in the basin of South Park. So there I was covered in sweat, mosquito bites, drinking a now lukewarm beer, on the side of river in the middle of nowhere, thinking to myself was this all worth it. And as the sun goes down, I silently think only old, rich, white men appreciate sunsets

The only reason to go fly fishing is to catch the largest, hardest fighting fish that you can possibly find. Running through a valley in the northernmost part of Park County Colorado is a small, insignificant river surrounded by underwhelming 14,000 ft mountains and massive evergreens. 

The worst part about this river is that it is absolutely infested with small brook trout. These voracious fish will rise to dry flies that they can barely get in their mouth all day long. Frankly this fishing is way too easy, and you will never find a fish that is larger than your hand. Why would anyone want to do that?

As many people know, brook trout are some of the most beautiful trout to have ever existed. It’s too bad the only place to actually catch a brook trout worth bragging about is in Labrador. After spending days upon weeks searching for the biggest trout in the river, the only person that could truly appreciate the simple joy of catching willing fish on a dry fly all day long is an old, rich, white man.

The final thing is that women can never be fly fishers. Even though they have the patience and compassion to run an entire household, including children, cooking for the family, and putting up with our sorry, fishing-obsessed-selves, that certainly doesn’t mean that they can catch a good trout on a fly rod. Fly fishing is only for old, rich, white men.

After everything that fly fishing has taught me I’ve learned a lot. Fly fishing has shown me that patience is the key to success. I will always stop to watch a sunset, and sometimes the most incredible fishing is getting back to the basics and catching minuscule brook trout on a dry fly. Fly fishing with my wife has lead to some of the greatest and most treasured memories I will ever have.

All of which is exactly why I will be a fly fisher until I am an old, rich, white man.