One of the benefits of growing up in a sporting camp environment was being taught how to fly fish by my Dad at a very early age. He very patiently taught me the skill of casting a fly rod with a floating line and dry fly. He nurtured my hunger to fish the mayfly hatch every season. It was such a “rush” to experience fish rising all around me, feasting on the mayflies and resting on the still waters. It wasn't long before I was fishing on my own every evening when the work was done. I would race to my favorite rock on Pierce Pond, land the boat, and climb onto a rock that was just right for balancing my bare feet. I would cast the dry fly among the hatch of mayflies and wait patiently. More often than not, I would beat the guests out on the lake to secure my spot, and I usually returned with a catch that was the envy of most.
My love for fly fishing is still with me today. I would rather cast a fly rod than partake in any other form of fishing. Not just because of the skill involved, but my Dad taught me to appreciate casting as an art form too. It can be very therapeutic and exasperating all at the same time. Most of all, I cherish the bond with my Dad.
One night my Dad took me fishing and we anchored the boat just off the end of the rock. We fished on opposite sides of the boat to ensure a wide berth of opportunity. In an instant, my fly was attacked! I yanked on my rod to set the hook, and the fun began. The fish felt like it weighed fifty pounds! It took all the line on my reel, and I was not strong enough to strip the line back in to land it. So, my Dad took the rod from me and “strong-armed” it back to the boat where we netted it. It was then that we realized I had hooked the fish by the tail, hence the reason it felt like a whale, not a native brook trout. The trout was a little less than three pounds—a prize I will never forget.
The next day one of the dock boys took a can of paint over to the rock and painted “Jeannie's Rock” on it. From that day forward the rock had a name and a story to tell.