Sunday, September 17, 2006
Chasm between anglers needn't exist
Mark Taylor is outdoors editor at The Roanoke Times.
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Mark Taylor
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Standing high on the bank of the river, the burly young fisherman scanned the clear pool below, and smiled when he saw the half-dozen steelhead finning in the current.
Having been away from the river for nearly a week, he was glad to see that the fish were still there. He hoped the fishing would be as good as it had been on that previous trip, when he had hooked several good fish.
Quickly he made his way to the river's edge and prepared to cast.
There was a problem, however.
This was my hole.
"Nope," I said from my spot 15 feet upstream.
"What?" he asked.
"There's no room," I said as I readied for another cast with my fly rod.
My brother, Greg, and his friend Will Hope were fly fishing the middle and upper sections of the run.
"Are you serious?" he asked, somewhat astonished.
"Absolutely."
He wasn't ready to give up.
"Are you from around here?" he asked.
I knew what he was getting at.
This river -- Oregon's famous North Umpqua -- is split into two sections. One stretch is managed under standard regulations. Another, roughly 30-mile-long stretch, is managed under extremely restrictive fly-fishing-only rules.
The two areas are known by the locals at the bait water and the fly water. Most of the fishing tourists drawn to the river head to the fly water.
This guy thought we were lost. I assured him we knew exactly where we were.
"You guys have 30 miles of water that we can't fish," he grumbled. "Why don't you go up there?"
He reluctantly trudged away from the water's edge and sat on a rock.
I kept casting.
And I kept thinking.
And I started to feel kind of sick.
There exists between fly fishermen and conventional fishermen a natural chasm, and too often it's a divisive one.
In the eyes of plenty of fly anglers, conventional tackle anglers are a bunch of bait-chucking, worm-plunking, fish-killing, stream-littering, resource-abusing rednecks.
Many conventional fishermen don't think much of fly-fishers, either, considering them a bunch of fancy pants, "River Runs Through It"-watching, influence-peddling, elitist poseurs who think that money can buy fishing bliss.
The attitude is not good for anyone.
Trout anglers in this region learned this first hand about a decade ago during a battle over the Jackson River tailwater.
A relatively small group of fly anglers had led an effort to change the rules on the river to disallow bait fishing. The game department's board narrowly approved the rule and the you-know-what hit the fan.
Justifiably feeling slighted, many locals fought back. Land was posted. Fly anglers were intimidated. Fishing ground to a virtual standstill.
The game department quickly backpedaled and revised the rules, but it was too late. Locals remained distrustful and uncooperative, and the agency no longer takes an active management role on what has potential to be one of the East's premier public trout streams.
The lesson from the Jackson has hit home with some fly fishermen.
Last weekend, volunteers from the recently revived New River Valley chapter of Trout Unlimited spent a good part of the day working on habitat on Peak Creek in Pulaski. The stream is a new addition to the state's Delayed Harvest trout program.
Most of the young men I talked with, several of whom were vaguely aware of the Jackson River debacle, said they prefer to fish for wild trout, and doubted they would actually spend much time fishing in Peak Creek. One, Virginia Tech graduate student Chuck Harrell, even said he wasn't worried about poachers, which can be a problem on Delayed Harvest waters.
"Who cares?" he said. "It's getting them out."
These guys get it.
They realize that for all of our differences in tackle, techniques, even attire, fishermen are fishermen. Some certainly deserve the above-mentioned labels; most of us just want to catch more and/or bigger fish.
It's nice to have a few designated spots managed under special regs. And it's nice to have lots of water where we're all welcome.
There's room for all of us out there.
Standing there on the North Umpqua that day a few weeks ago, I stopped casting and reeled in my line.
I walked up to the fishermen and started talking. I asked him what he was using.
"A red bead and a piece of black yarn," he said, holding out a thing that looked as much like a fly as the thing I was casting. "They were crushing it the other day."
I'd had my turn.
"They didn't like my flies," I said. "Maybe they'll like that.
"Go catch one."
