At 45, my husband decided he wanted to learn about fly fishing.
We had just off-loaded almost everything we owned, replacing our 2,500-square-foot house and 5-acre hobby farm with a simpler life. A tiny house of 240 square feet and fewer possessions.
I couldn’t argue with his minimalist approach to a new hobby. One rod. One fly. He had researched something called Tenkara, a method of fly fishing that originated in the mountains of Japan.
But I should’ve known better. After all, this is the guy who didn’t begin his mountain-biking hobby until he had a helmet, protective glasses, shirt, shoes and water bottle that matched his bike.
He assures me he is discerning in everything he does (and of course that’s why he chose me, he says with a smile).
I shouldn’t have been surprised when the fly rod rack went up on the garage wall and quickly filled with seven rods of varying materials and lengths. Nor should I have become trapped in said garage when he wanted to show me his latest reel, backing, fly line, leader and tippet.
Not all five-weight lines are created equal, he says, extending his arms fully in front of me to reveal two colorful spools. His eyes wide and vocal inflection raised like a child who had collected a bunch of frogs in the yard in an ice cream bucket and was marveling at the differences.
It depends on how the weight is distributed on the line, he tells me. “I have a five-weight line that has a short heavy head, but if you weigh the first 30 feet, that five-weight line is actually equivalent to an eight-weight line,” he explains.
I nod, glossy eyed, and throw in the occasional “Uh-huh” to show I’m present, making eye contact but not necessarily listening the full 30 minutes of the lesson.
Then there’s the containers of fly-tying material. Tubs of mariboo, buck tail, deer hair, pheasant tail, colorful foams, rubber legs, bead heads, all the different hook styles and six or seven colors of thread. All of these materials are important to a fly because material selection determines how the fly will swim. (But you, dear reader, probably knew that!)
I can’t complain about the flies multiplying, though. They are quite pretty to look at, and they range in size. The smallest he ties is about the size of a staple. The largest is about the size of the stapler. Many of these flies get stolen by fish or snagged in trees and rocks, so they have a natural attrition.
To be honest, seven rods, 20 fly lines and boxes upon boxes of feathers and thread aren’t that much of a space suck. Even the summer and cold-weather waders hang rather non-descript on the garage wall. Water vessels are another story. We’re talking serious boat action with this hobby. Since this “one rod, one fly” lie took hold, we’ve invested in a fishing boat, fishing kayak and stand-up paddle board. He’s even asked me how I’d feel about an inner tube with built-in waders, so he could flutter kick his way around the water while fishing. (I admit there’s summer flutter kicking I’d like to do!)
My husband reminds me of his motto, “if it’s worth doing, it’s worth overdoing.” He insists he only has one rod, but he qualifies this statement by saying “for each occasion.”
I take his passion and attention to detail to heart, especially when he inquires why I need another pair of black shoes or yet another purse. They’re for different occasions, of course.
