Fish don’t attack artificial flies intending to be caught. However, if a fly is presented at the right time, speed, and in the right light, the fish’s next move is instinctual. Gulp. This is also true for fly fishermen and rivers. A river experienced at the right time, speed, and in the right light, is irresistible. It’s only a matter of time before the river reels them in. Plop.
I didn’t journey to Bartlett, New Hampshire to fly fish. I traveled there to witness Fall’s deciduous death while learning about my family’s relationship to New Hampshire. We stayed at the Attitash Mountain resort, a quarter mile from the eastern bank of the Saco River, and fly fishing was the last thing on my mind.
On an evening hike with Glenn, my father-in-law, we emerged from the forest onto a rocky bank of the Saco River. Its riffles shimmered like diamonds in the setting sun. The wind whispered through the pines, silver maples, and river birches lining the bank. As I stood and took it all in, the desire to fly fish the Saco River tugged on my soul. It was like a child yanking my shirt to tell me they needed something.
Three days later, the wind and rain conspired to create a gap in our schedule, which meant one thing: it was time to fish. Glenn, an avid fly-fisherman, came prepared with most of the required gear. All we needed was Saco River intel and a few local flies. So, we visited North Country Angler in Jackson, New Hampshire after watching one of their river reports on YouTube.
The North Country Angler’s three cozy rooms were filled with apparel. Fly-rods lined the walls and a wooden desk overflowed with beads, hooks, feathers, and furs. A balsam and cedar candle burned on a table next to the door. The gregarious Steve Anger, owner of North Country Angler, greeted us with a warm smile from behind the counter. He has fished the Saco River for over 50 years and shares his deep knowledge of the area with anyone who will listen. Naturally, when he spoke, I listened. After twenty minutes, maps were gifted, flies purchased, and hands shaken. I left the shop confident that I would fly fish a river for the first time.
We prepped the gear in the upper room of our condo to the pitter-patter of rain on the window. After a final gear check, we put our rain jackets on and left as the rain slowed to a drizzle. Fortuitous timing. We hiked a quarter mile to the river.
For two hours we worked a half mile stretch of the Saco River. When the rain showed as much sign of stopping as the fish did of biting, we decided to head back to our room.
The smell of a Stouffer’s lasagna baking in the oven wafted up from the kitchen. The rain-soaked gear was laid out on the jacuzzi to dry. Our fly-rods were put away. As the lasagna warmed me from within, I planned where I wanted to fly fish next. Despite being skunked on The Saco, it is only a matter of time before another river reels me in.
