Richard Formato

Richard Formato is an avid catch-and-release fly-fisherman from Wytheville, Va. When not on the water, he operates a small business there. Formato loves to fly-fish in his native Southwest Virginia because of the great water and wonderful people. He also loves to fish the flats and shallows of the Gulf of Mexico and Atlantic whenever work and weather permit. He is on the Department of Conservation and Recreation's board of directors and is a trustee of the Shenandoah National Forest and Skyline Drive.

Recent columns

• What about Bob?
• Notes from the Charlotte Fly Show
• A chance meeting
• A wish for Jack

• Column archive
• Talk fly-fishing

It's easy to know why anybody likes to fly-fish in spring.

First, there are the colors. The red buds. The lavender hues on the ridge-lines at sunset. The wild daffodils. The emerald blush of a freestone stream.

Bounding out in May, there is nothing like a warm spring breeze.

No matter what you believe, it is almost impossible on a spring day not to feel connected to something a lot more important than yourself.

It’s a little more difficult on a day like today, with the backslap of the wind, and the snow sitting on the stream brush like Mississippi cotton.

It was on a winter’s day like today, when I started fly-fishing.

I came to fishing 13 years ago as a refugee, when it was very apparent that the other choices I were making in my life were not working.

I always wanted to fly fish, but at the time didn't feel like I had the money, lineage or self worth to be what I thought a fly fisherman was supposed to be.

Fly-fisherman were supposed to be rich people.

They drove special edition SUV’s, had cane rods, and say “how-ooze” instead of the word “house.”

This stupid misconception frightened me off, until one day, I quietly bought an inexpensive five-weight Scientific Angler’s rod and reel, and set out to teach myself.

With my yellow lab, we started fishing the slow waters of Craig’s Creek.

In those days, fly-fishing was a solitary hunt. I didn't have a lot friends, so I convinced my dog to wade in with me, and stay as still as a stone, as I tried to catch anything with fins.

There were some meltdowns back then. Some days I would get so frustrated that I would have hot flashes from cigar smoke burning up my face, and my line wrapped around everything in sight. I can even see my own dog running away from me after one ugly display. That was pathetic.

But on those first winter days with a fly rod in one fist and the other balled up in a warm pocket, I recall looking upstream thinking, I am not lonely anymore.

I felt the presence of something much greater than me, much more essential than anything I had ever felt.

In the starkness of winter, I started seeing a much bigger picture.

I started to grow up.

Turned on by my new life as a fly-fisherman, I fished in the sleet and snow and introduced myself to anyone who I thought had ever held a fly rod.

Quickly, I became acquainted with the value of breathable waders, and merino wool “Smart Socks” – the most underrated piece of equipment in your fly bag.

I made many new friends, and realized fly-fishermen were just like me.

They looked like me, talked like me and wanted to do things I wanted to do.

While they owned a lot of trucks, not one had The Eddie Bauer edition!

One thing in common, then and now, a fly-rodder loves sharing their time and knowledge.

A fly-fisherman loves the mystery of not knowing.

And slowly, as the days of my new life lengthened, I started catching a few little sunfish.

Little fish. Little victories.

For the first year, I had no idea what the hatch really was. Desperate for some clues, I would swat at flies on the water, then pull out of my little pocket hatch book and thumb the pages. The book is long gone, but the embarrassment lingers.

Throughout, I learned winter has it’s own life.

It has its own universe of blue winged olives, tiny and early stones, midges, ants. to provide for big hungry browns, wild rainbows and fragile brookies. It brings in schools of glass minnows and menhaden to serve up meals to salt water Stripers that will dig like convicts when tricked by a gummy fly that’s hooked in their jaw.

That cardinal season, I loved all the little skills I was (and still am) learning. I can feel the sense of exhilaration tying a double surgeon’s knot for the first time, and wondering if I would be able to do it with the rush of moving water at my feet.

I started learning fly-fishing, like life, is a 12 month prospect.

No matter what time of year, it assaults your senses and your heart.

On the Jackson, when you smell wood smoke off the water, you feel the warmth of your grandmother’s kitchen.

At Raven’s Cliff, when you hear a crow call, you feel the isolation of a broken heart.

At the end of a dirt road with a fading sun, when hear the crank of your truck, you feel the safety of your family.

And when you clear a fish and drown your fleece gloves on a snowy day, you yelp and laugh out loud, but thank goodness, you are not alone.

I love this sport, this life as a fly-fisherman.

Tight lines,
Richard