When it comes to fly fishing, the words just flow

This column was republished after appearing in the Sept. 5 editions.

I am as guilty as the next guy - or writer and outdoor storyteller, if you will.

At a recent picnic I was reminded by a chap who reads every single bit of outdoor information he can glean from newspapers, magazines and blogs.

I've seen him several times on the Fox Chain, slow-trolling for walleyes as well as speeding down a weed line hunting for muskies.

"How come every time you write about trout and fly fishing you get all flowery and melodramatic?" he asked. "Why is it you often use fancy language when describing how the sun's rays appear to one's eyes when reflecting off the surface of a stream?"

And then his friend chimed in with similar questions draped in a barb-like atonal approach.

"I like your stuff," he proclaimed, "but sometimes you're so far out there I have to consult my intergalactic dictionary."

And so it went on until the brats and hot dogs were just about gone and the kegs of brew would draw no more. They both stumbled away to find shade and solace under a large oak tree.

I was getting ready to head home when Bangs Lake Louie strolled up and offered his hand to me.

"I watched and listened to those two unhappy guys," Louie noted. "I've listened to them complain to other writers as well. The problem, the way I see it, is they're never happy about everything, especially after consuming their obligatory six packs."

I just stood there and carefully listened.

"Keep doing what you've always done Mr. Jackson," said Louie, "and that's keeping us readers entertained."

As far back as I can remember I always used a spinning rod and ancient bait casting rig. I cut my teeth on the Fox Chain, Deep Lake, the Peshtigo River and the like.

My away from school reading material contained wonderful descriptions of clear northern and western streams teeming with trout. But as a Chicago lad I couldn't ever imagine sampling the kind of fishing some of the great wordsmiths described in their monthly reports.

I was a product of Midwestern angling, where largemouth and smallmouth bass ruled the roost and crappies and bluegills ruled the skillet. It was the eating-size walleye that drove my father's taste buds nuts, while every year or so he tangled with a tackle-busting muskie in Hayward that became an elongated, super-trophy by the time he returned home.

The magic time for me was when I got up early, long before sunrise, and quietly rowed the wooden boat out into the mist of the Peshtigo. As the sun slowly appeared I was able to watch the mink and loons trying to rustle up some breakfast.

Even then, so many decades ago, my homespun poetry and poorly constructed prose found its way into my memory banks. It was all based on what I saw, on what I was experiencing, as well as tasting the air and scent of trees and the north country's exotic perfumes.

And when I was formally introduced to fly rod trout fishing, I had what some would call a life-changing detour to a side road.

It was on those spring creeks and limestone rivers that I realized I didn't need a fishing partner. It was those first explorations with a handful of small flies and an old, bamboo fly rod that helped me form the words so I could put them to paper and articles. I was the young novice, so full of wonderment and excitement. I never forgot my spinning and bait casting roots, but because of some unseen and yet powerful mumbo-jumbo I kept hearing in my brain, I allowed my fingers and thoughts to race across the computer keyboard, which subsequently formed the thoughts the double six-packers found uncomfortable.

It's just my opinion, but as far as I am concerned, not too many visuals can compare to the scenes of a wild trout stream unfolding with each riffle, with each set of boulders, and surfaces teeming with hatching mayflies.

• Contact Mike Jackson at angler88@comcast.net, and catch his radio show 6-7 a.m. Sundays on WSBC 1240-AM and podcast at www.mikejacksonoutdoors.com.