Casting Time | Lennox Cummings ’21

Upon starting this essay, I found myself trying to brainstorm about very serious concepts and ideas. However, when I actually started writing, there was only one topic that kept rising to the surface of my mind. A topic that is 500,000 years old. One that everybody knows about, but few can master. My heart would object if I chose to write about anything other than fishing. There is something about the uncertainty of what every single cast may hold that keeps me coming back, over and over. Fly fishing specifically has been the passion, coping mechanism, bonding activity, and joy of my life since childhood. The morning starts early, right around 7 a.m. The Montana world is covered in dew and quite cool, even though it’s the middle of July. I eat my bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats and my father whips up some eggs while I fight the urge to fall asleep in my bowl. I finally finish and my father tells me to start loading our gear. It’s probably 7:30 now, so I hustle to assemble fishing vests and rods. My father and I get in the truck, and away we go on the cracked and weather-beaten Montana roads. We ride South on US 191 for roughly 20 minutes until we get to our favorite spot on the Gallatin River. The river is freezing cold, but it is home to Rainbow, Cutthroat, and Brown trout. We study the submerged rocks with insects crawling over them, as well as the ones floating downstream. We’ve been preparing for this day for months, researching hatch patterns and schedules. It’s like a game, trying to figure out what insects or nymphs the fish are eating today. We tie on different flies, trying to mimic the insects. I like to use the Parachute Adams, my lucky fly. Each cast I make, there is a chance to catch a fish. Hundreds and hundreds of casts may fall between each fish caught, but as time passes, I forget all about time. It’s been an hour since we started fishing, or maybe two – I’m not really sure. I think it’s about 10:00 a.m. I’ve already caught a few trout, so I am happy. I look downstream and see my father fishing. He is a master. His cast unfolds over the water like a hand extending to greet someone.

I watch in awe as he elegantly casts and catches fish. He learned from his father and mastered it with decades of practice, just as I will. His knowledge of the art is abundant, and so is my grandfather’s. Another hour or so passes. Maybe it’s 11:30 now – I don’t know, but I don’t care. The heat of the day creeps in and the fish stop eating as usual. We walk the bank back to the truck. We peel off our wet gear. I hop in the shotgun seat and check the time on my phone; it says 1:00 p.m. That can’t be right, I think. But then again, I wouldn’t know.

the edge, digital photography matthew luke ’22