Butterfly-Fishing

I am not a misanthrope but I do shun thebranch, which was followed by another from a
company of people when it comes to fly fishing.white stone, and another, and another and
When I have a stream to myself, I becomeanother.
more at ease, more aware of my surroundings,They appeared out of nowhere and soon the air
and open to nature's bounty. I am not so busyfilled with hundreds of flickering, fluttering
chatting about hatches, competing for water, orbutterflies, a sunlit, gleaming cloud of moving,
enviously eyeing the skillful ease of a fellowexpanding purple space. They filled the sky and
angler's cast. One downside is that there isdanced as though engaged in some secret
generally no one present to confirm or deny thepapilonian ritual. I stood frozen, heart pounding, as
size and number of trout I catch and release onmy breathing quickened. The multitude of
any given day. Even worse, when something trulybutterflies, now a shimmering, surreal entity,
incredible happens no one is there to verify it.encircled me, enveloped me in a mystical
However, this is a small sacrifice for the pleasurewhirlwind; then lanquidly floated high above,
such experiences in solitude brings.stopped and hovered as though poised on some
When I am on a stream solo, extraordinary thingsmysterious looming precipice, then as one fluid
happen. One experience I will never forgetmass, tumbled off like air-born rapids down the
occurred while I was fishing a stream near myriver valley and into the steep canyon.
home in the West Kootenays of Southern BritishI remained motionless for a long time after. I kept
Columbia. This particular day in July was like mostpeering down into the canyon in hopes that the
of our summer days: scorching. There was nobutterflies would emerge for an encore. My
breeze, no clouds, no shade, only the mercilessbreathing slowly returned to normal but a strange,
weight of the sun. Thankfully, I was waist deep innervous tremor still lay deep in my stomach. A
the cool, forgiving river, casting my fly toward aslight breeze began to stir, and the sun dipped low
deep depression sunk into the opposite bank thatover the western hills, taking much of the
created a bit of a back eddy. The fly settled aoppressive heat with it. Suddenly off the water, a
few feet upstream of the eddy but the currentlarge mayfly emerged. I watched as another
soon floated it into the seam. It happened so fastalighted on the stream, drifting along on its current
- the splash, the set, the trout hooked, played,only to be swallowed up in a fatal splash. I couldn't
and gently released - a nice sixteen inch rainbow.pass up a good Ephemerella grandis hatch. I tied
As I continued working the water, casually castingon a red quill dun and cast into the ebbing light,
into the riffles and holes, my eye caught a flickerthe sound of butterfly wings still echoing in my
of something in the air. Turning quickly to myhead.
right, I focused my gaze on the stunning,It was a sublime moment and though the
acrobatic convulsions of a butterfly. The vibrantexperience may seem incidental to the fishing, I
purple wings with orange sun-burst tips and whitecould not have witnessed it had I not gone fly
borders, suggested a Lorquins Admiral. It dippedfishing. Wherever and whenever I go, whether
and fluttered through the air until it settled on aalone or with others, it is for the simple pleasure
withered log at the edge of the stream. I sawof being out on the water amidst the wonders of
another, an exact replica, take wing and stumblethe natural world, seeking fish, and, if truly
drunkenly over the water. It was followed by thefortunate, finding butterflies.
first. Then another took off from a distant