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For a few of you readers out there, you might've noticed that I've been conspicuously absent for the past couple of weeks.  Let me assure you there is a pretty good excuse for my spotty appearance in the paper and I'll let you in on it.      

I mentioned a couple of months ago that I'm taking some fly-casting certification exams through the Federation of Fly Fishers in early October.  That much is true, I am scheduled to take the performance, instructional and written exams October 3.    

However, what really rubs my rhubarb and is causing me untold levels of anxiety at the moment are the changing circumstances I've been dealt as the testing date draws nearer.  Seriously, if I can get through all this stuff in one piece, I'll count myself lucky, because right now I'm in the process of losing my marbles.

It all began a few months ago when the Federation told me I could take my exams on October 10 in Richland Center, Wisconsin.  That's a little less than four hours each way, which isn't too bad a drive.  My plan was to get on the road really early on the 10th and take care of business down there in a single day. 

Well, just a couple weeks ago, I received an email explaining that the Richland Center exam opportunity evaporated, and that if I wished to take the exam, I'd need to do it a week earlier at the 2009 FFF Southern Conclave, held on October 3 in Mountain Home, Arkansas.  Oh, and I had to commit to a decision within a week.  (Since the other available testing sites are located in Malmkoping, Sweden, Schimmert, Netherlands and Moscow, Russia, I figured a 26-hour round-trip drive didn't sound too bad after all.)

So you can imagine what I've been doing with my time over the past couple of weeks.  You got it.  Casting, casting, casting.  I either practice in my neighbor's back lawn or the field at Taylors Falls Elementary School.  Armed with my rod and reel, a 100-foot measuring tape and orange safety cones, I set up my mock testing area and cast.

I run through each of the required casts and analyze loop shapes, changes in the casting arc, power application and stroke length, to name a few.  The only effective way to practice the instructional portion of the exam (when candidates are asked to explain and demonstrate a wide range of casts and the theory behind these casts) is to talk out loud to myself as I run through each question on the test. In other words, I talk to people that aren't really there.

Seriously, if somebody right now offered me the choice between practicing fly-casting and getting smacked repeatedly in the head with a ball peen hammer, I think I'd choose the hammer. The flat side, please. Thank you very much.       

It finally occurred to me the other night how silly all this casting stuff might appear to the outside world.  As the sun set and a light drizzle began to fall, I found myself roll casting while standing in the shallows of the St. Croix River at the Wisconsin Lion's Park boat landing.  I was wearing shorts and knee-high rubber boots and looking rather goofy when I noticed an older gentleman fishing off the public pier just upstream of my position.  This is how our brief conversation unfolded:

"Ya catchin' any?"  The old guy asked.

"I'm not fishing," I replied.

The old angler, puzzled, cautiously continued.  "Sure looks like you're fishing to me." 

"I'm practicing my roll cast.  I need to cast 50 feet and the fly has to land within 18 inches of a floating target."  It was then that I began to really hear myself talk and I started to get a little concerned.

The old guy chuckled a bit nervously and added,  "Maybe the fish don't know you're practicing and one of them will bite your fly."

"Won't do much good," I replied softly, hoping I wouldn't be heard. "There's no hook.  I'm using a yarn fly."

I surmised something rather simple from that odd exchange: In this life, you're either a fly-casting geek studying the minutiae of an off-shoulder roll cast (and in turn making life and the pursuit of happiness far more complicated and elusive than it needs to be), or you're a guy sipping Old Style from a can while staring at a big orange plastic bobber.  I can guarantee you that one of us on that river didn't appear to have both oars in the water, and that guy was me.  After all, which one of us appeared to be fishing in the dark and rain without a hook?               

You've all probably heard Einstein's definition of insanity.  He said, "Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."  To the outside world, the sight of a guy intently scrutinizing fly line as it travels through the air must seem highly strange, particularly when it appears that each cast is identical.  But I can assure you that each cast is indeed different, and slight adjustments in the casting arc or the rod tip's path will produce vastly different results.        

Those facts are of little consolation, though.  I've come to realize that attempts to explain what I'm doing to curious onlookers does me no good, and I indeed must appear to others as I truly am: a guy that mutters to himself while casting a fly rod with no hook on the end of his line.

If you have comments for Dan or story ideas contact him at e-mail [email protected].

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