Learning to Fly (Fish)

Happy Monday, friends!

A few weeks ago, I stood ankle-deep in a mountain river in Colorado, fly rod in hand, trying to learn the art of fly fishing. It was something I had always wanted to try—a long-held daydream wrapped in the imagery of clear streams, towering trees, and the quiet pursuit of something elusive. When a friend from Massachusetts, in his usual fatalistic tone, said, “The world is going to shit—you might need to learn how to catch fish,” I figured there was no time like the present.

Fly fishing is more than just fishing. For some, it’s a meditation, for others, a craft that demands patience, precision, and an appreciation for nature. For me, a total novice it felt like a conversation with the river (the last time I held a fishing rod was in Belarus, when I was ten, using maggots as bait and catching nothing.) You can’t bully a fish onto a line; you have to coax it, be in tune with the elements. My first few casts were awkward — I almost broke my guide’s shades and pulled his right eye out — but they also felt strangely calming.

Here’s a very short video of my fishing adventure:

A Brief History of Fly Fishing

Fly fishing dates back thousands of years, with the earliest recorded reference appearing in ancient Roman writings from the 2nd century. Claudius Aelianus, a Roman author, described Macedonians catching fish with artificial flies. Fast forward to medieval England, and fly fishing started evolving into the form we recognize today. Dame Juliana Berners’ A Treatyse of Fysshynge with an Angle, published in 1496, is often credited as one of the first comprehensive guides to the sport, teaching not only fishing techniques but also how to read the water and understand fish behavior.

There is also a Japanese tradition of fly fishing called Tenkara, which has ancient origins and was practiced by Japanese monks and mountain villagers for centuries. Tenkara focuses on simplicity, using just a rod, line, and fly (without a reel), and is believed to have been developed as a practical method for catching fish in Japan’s fast-moving mountain streams.

Tenkara is an important part of fly fishing history, but it is separate from the Western fly fishing tradition. Both methods evolved independently, highlighting different approaches to the same core idea of using artificial flies to catch fish.

It wasn’t until the 19th and early 20th centuries, however, that fly fishing became truly popularized in both Britain and America.

The River Runs Through It—and Into the Mainstream

If you were around in the ‘90s, there’s no way to talk about fly fishing without mentioning A River Runs Through It. The 1992 film, based on Norman Maclean’s novella, didn’t just capture the intricacies of the sport—it immortalized it. The movie, with its sweeping shots of the Montana wilderness and slow, graceful casting, made fly fishing seem like an art form.

That film wasn’t the only literary foray into fly fishing. Hemingway, always an outdoorsman, loved fly fishing and wove it into his fiction. His short story, Big Two-Hearted River, chronicles a man’s journey into nature to heal after the devastation of war, using fly fishing as his retreat and salvation. The serenity of casting, the connection to the water, and the silent pursuit of something deeper—it’s no wonder that fly fishing has been an enduring symbol of escapism, especially in literature.

Why Fly Fishing Endures

So why is fly fishing so popular, and why does it seem to resonate so deeply, particularly with those who love nature and solitude? Part of the allure is its simplicity in a world that’s growing increasingly complicated. When you’re out on a river, there’s no scrolling, no notifications. It’s just you, the water, and a fly on the end of a line. Fly fishing teaches patience in a way few other hobbies do. It’s not about immediate gratification; it’s about reading the river, matching the hatch (choosing the right fly to mimic the local insects), and perfecting your technique over time.

There’s also the joy of craftsmanship. Every fly, tied by hand, represents both an attempt to outwit a fish and a nod to tradition. Those who get serious about fly fishing often become amateur entomologists, studying insects to create the perfect replica. There’s a ritualistic beauty in tying your own flies, as if you’re connecting to the lineage of fishermen who came before you.

But maybe the real reason why fly fishing endures is that it offers a break from the noise. Whether you’re in a Colorado stream or an isolated creek in Montana, there’s a profound quiet that comes with the territory. You stand there, fly in hand, and everything else seems to fade away. For hours, you’re not worried about the news, the chaos of modern life, or the impending doom your friend warned you about. You’re just casting, waiting, and hoping for that elusive tug on the line. Even if you don’t catch anything, you leave the river with something more valuable: the reminder that there’s still peace to be found if you look for it.

The World Goes to Shit, and I Catch a Fish

On that first day, after several hours of awkwardly whipping the line around like someone trying to lasso a cloud, I finally managed to hook a fish. It was small, nothing to brag about, something I didn’t want to eat… but at that moment I understood the pull of the sport. It’s not about the size of the catch—it’s about the experience. The sun was starting to dip below the mountains, and for that brief moment, I felt entirely in sync with the world.

Maybe my friend was right. The world is going to shit. But at least now, if everything falls apart, I know how to catch a fish (I think). All I need now is to find a fly fishing community in New York City that’s willing to take on a rookie eager to learn, and I’ll be cooking with gas.

If you’re interested in fly fishing basics, this is a good video to watch.

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’Til next time.
Peace.
ak