A Fly-Fishing Fool
By Kerry Soper
(Published in Utah Life magazine, September, 2018)
For a pastime that is supposed to be about enjoying solitude in the great outdoors, fly-fishing can also be surprisingly effective at turning a clueless middle-aged man into an embarrassing public spectacle. Consider this cautionary tale:
When I was in my mid 30s I decided to take up fly fishing, but because it cost me half a year’s salary just to purchase all the complicated gear (waders, rod, reel, and a pile of accessories thatdangled from my vest like Christmas tree ornaments), I couldn’t afford lessons or a guide.
So as a complete novice, I drove to the Provo River for my first attempt; halfway up the canyon, I pulled over at Vivian Park, geared up, and set off up the river bank, looking like an oversized Teletubby in my chest-high waders.
When I finally settled on a spot and gingerly entered the water, several factors conspired against me catching any fish: I didn’t know how to cast and kept losing my flies on overhanging branches; the savvy brown trout in the Provo usually prefer nymphs rather than the dry flies I was offering; and the water was dangerously high that day. (I kept losing my footing, and each time I toppled over, a half-gallon of frigid water would shoot down the front of my waders to my crotch area, inducing an involuntary, high-pitched scream)
After two hours, I dejectedly began hiking back to my car. As I neared Vivian Park, however, I noticed a pond nestled against the rocky mountainside. With renewed optimism, I decided to fish some more and bypassed the boardwalk to enter this small body of water through its marshy, eastern end--a critical error, I later learned.
Because the planted trout in the pond were so naïve, I soon began catching fish after fish despite the awkwardness of my casting. A small crowd, in fact—principally composed of young boys, began to form behind the railing on the boardwalk. A vacationing Japanese family even started taking pictures and I found myself nonchalantly striking the kind of faux-candid poses you might see in an L.L. Bean catalogue. My ego was beginning to inflate dangerously.
Then, like an ominous sign of approaching doom, I heard the shrill whistle of the old Heber Creeper train as it emerged from the canyon, pulled into the park, and began disgorging its 100 plus passengers. At this point a small voice in my head suggested that “maybe you should pack up and head to your car…” Unfortunately, I pushed this rational prompting aside, and kept at it, anticipating an even bigger audience.
Sure enough, within minutes, dozens of stocky people in cargo shorts and t-shirts were crowding up behind the railing. I soon sensed, however, that something was off. Were people murmuring? Glancing over my shoulder, I was alarmed to see that people looked annoyed and were making angry gestures in my direction. Realizing I was missing something, I walked casually over to the railing and offered a tentative smile and modest wave. These gestures were rejected by rows of disgruntled frowns.
Baffled, I climbed awkwardly through the railing and stood up in the middle of the crowd. An older man with a beard and fanny pack, acting as a sort of unofficial group leader, stuck his finger in my chest and demanded in a voice dripping with disgust, “How do you live with yourself?!”
Red faced, all I could stammer was “Huh? Whaa…?”
By way of explanation, he simply pointed to an oversized sign that hovered over the boardwalk—a sign, I should make clear, that you couldn’t read when standing in the pond. In giant letters it read:
FISHING STRICTLY PROHIBITED EXCEPT FOR CHILDREN UNDER THE AGE OF 12
AND THE MENTALLY OR PHYSICALLY DISABLED.
I stood there aghast, and for a brief second seriously considered doing something which I now realize would have been absolutely insensitive: maybe saying “I’m a good fisher- boy, aren’t I?”—or perhaps pretending to use my fishing rod as a walking guide, tap-tapping my way out of the crowd…
Instead, I simply mumbled, “Oh crud…” and ran toward my car, my waders making an obscene sloshing sound with each lurching stride.
I could feel dozens of eyes staring me down as I stuffed my rod into the trunk, climbed in while still wearing my waders, and pealed out of the parking lot.
It was a long time before I returned to Vivian Park; when I finally did, years later, to take my kids fishing, it was not a relaxing experience. The whole time I was distracted, my eyes continually glancing up at that sign. When I finally heard, inevitably, the distant whistle of the Heber Creeper as it made its way down the canyon, I felt a chill run down my spine and my bowels involuntarily dropped about a foot. “C’mon kids,” I said, “we’re gettin’ outta here.”
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