Casting

October 6, 2025

The two men sat in the truck, outfitted in their chest-high waders, watching the southern Idaho weather. The Teton River flowed silently and swiftly a few yards away. They heard thunder cracking and saw flickers of lightening. Dark clouds massed overhead, raindrops plunked on the windshield. A thunderstorm is bad news for wading and waving a fly rod. They waited.

A half-hour passed. The clouds moved east, the rain slackened to a drizzle. They climbed from the truck and moved to the bank, stepped into the river and leaned forward against the current. They eased into thigh-deep water, felt a cold rush, then moved slowly forward.

The younger man was the veteran. He had fished this spot, called Horseshoe Bridge, a dozen times, and others along the Teton. He had fished many rivers around the West, in Idaho, Wyoming, Colorado, Montana, California, New Mexico. He had fished in Yellowstone, sometimes hiking six miles to isolated spots where bears wandered. He had the tools, the rods, the cold-weather clothing, the knowledge. He tied his own flies, dry for surface fishing, wet for below surface.

The older man had never fished with a fly rod. He had fished as a boy with his father, mostly saltwater, back East. As a teenager he had done some bait fishing. Fifteen years ago he had taken his son on a fishing trip to Canada, an unforgettable experience. He had taken his young grandsons fishing once or twice, with no luck. Now they played sports and did other things.

For this outing he listened and watched for thirty minutes as the younger man coached him on dry land, demonstrating the fly-casting motion. “You use the weight of the line to carry the fly,” the young man explained. He missed a dozen tries before finally making a few short casts.

At a quarter-mile upstream the two men paused. Here the river was bounded by thick brush and woodland on the east bank, a broad pasture on the western side. A few cows grazed the pasture. The Grand Teton range, tinted pale gold in faint sunlight, rose to the east.

“We may see a moose,” the younger man said. “There are a few in these woods who have lost their fear of humans. They come through the brush for water.”  

He stared across the river. “The fish rise to the surface for bugs. You can see the little circles they make.” He stood still, casting his eyes upriver. The older man squinted in the same direction. He saw only the ripples in the current.

The younger man pointed out over the water. “There’s a fish, did you see it? Look over at that stretch of eroded bank. There’s a couple of bushes just to the left. Fish are breaking the surface. They’re feeding. Let’s try here.”

He opened his fly case and selected a bug and tied it to the leader on the older man’s line, using a clinch knot, and clipped the ends. “We’ll try dry flies. This is called a Parachute Adams. Fish rise for it.” He tied a similar fly to his own leader and moved a couple of hundred feet farther upstream. The older man played some line from his reel with his left hand, raised his right arm, and flicked his wrist to cast. The line dropped into the water about five feet from the rod’s tip. He frowned.

He recalled the younger man’s coaching: wave, or “mend” the line forward, drift, then cast again. Unlike bait fishing from a bank or boat, when the fisherman can toss his hook and wait, fly fishing is continuous movement. The young man had warned, “A bug in the water doesn’t make a wake.”

He lifted his rod, pulling the line back, and cast again. The wet line flew out maybe eight or ten feet. He mended, waving the rod tip up and down and let the fly drift with the current for a moment. No fish rose for it. He pulled the line in and cast again, mended, drifted, and cast. He developed a rhythm, sending the fly a few feet farther with each cast.

The younger man yelled, “Got one!” The older man turned and watched as his partner expertly played the fish. As it broke the surface the younger man raised his rod tip, pulled his net from his backpack and scooped up the fish. The older man waded over to look. The fish, about 12 inches long, flapped in the net. “It’s a brown trout,” the young man said. “See the speckle pattern?” With a quick motion he released the fish.

A few moments later he yelled again, and reeled in another brown trout. Again he released it.

“Let’s try a wet fly,” he said. He removed the dry fly from the older man’s line and replaced it with a Flashback Pheasant Tail. “This imitates a nymph that lives near the bottom. We’ll cast downstream and let the current take the line. It’s easier, less maneuvering the rod.”

He moved back upstream. The older man faced downstream, flicked his wrist and cast the wet fly at a 45-degree angle to the current. The line plunked on the surface and disappeared. He mended with an up-and-down motion, then let the line drift. He cast again. As he lifted the rod he felt a sharp tug. The rod tip bent. He felt it again. He raised the tip, feeling drag. “I’ve got one!” he yelled.

He reeled, still feeling weight on the line. Then nothing. The rod tip went slack. He kept reeling until he saw the fly. No fish. Whatever had tugged on his fly had shaken free. Smart fish, he thought.

The clouds moved back overhead, rain sprinkled the river surface. On the far bank a cow climbed down the bank and drank. He stared at the fishermen then wandered off. The older man focused on getting his casts right, wrist at shoulder height, quick motion forward, mend, let the line drift, cast again. He felt no bites, but it didn’t matter. The silence of the place, the swift-flowing water, the majestic Tetons mattered. The time with the younger man mattered.

The older man felt the serenity, the rhythm of the afternoon, cast, mend, drift, cast. The line drifted through the ripples. He pulled it back and cast again, then again. Why had he waited so long to try this? Why had he waited so long to do other things? You barely notice time passing, years passing, he thought. Make the best of it. All we can do, he told himself.

The sky grew dark, evening gathered. A gentle breeze rose. The older man watched the ripples and eddies take his line. He felt confident about his casting, now sending his line high and far, nearly to the center of the river.

The younger man called, “Let me know when you’re ready. I can do this all day.” The surface of the river had darkened, reflecting the sky. The older man felt comfortable tossing the fly out, even if the fish weren’t fooled. It didn’t matter. He looked up at the younger man. “I guess we’re done for today.” The young man nodded and pulled in his line. They turned and moved downstream.