Fly-fishing's Alma Mater

A School on the Fly

These are the biggest trout I've ever seen. Twenty of them circle ponderously at my feet, their broad fins and powerful tails creating swirls on the water's surface. I've come here for these slab-sided trout. And for the fly-fishing taught at Greer Lodge by Ken Winton and Brian Kuchynka, instructors from the Tightlines Flyfishing shop in Tucson. The setting for these classes couldn't be more exquisite. Greer Lodge is a 1940s-era hand-hewn log structure built on the bank of the Little Colorado River in the White Mountains area of eastern Arizona. In front of the lodge where I stand, river water feeds three ponds that hold the fantastically large trout. It is 8:30 A.M. when I finally stop staring at them. Class is about to begin. In the lodge dining room, Winton explains fly-fishing basics. “The difference between fly-fishing and other types of fishing,” he says, “is that with a fly rod you cast the line, not the fly. A fly is too light to cast by itself.” An hour is spent dealing with rods and casting technique. Then at last we're off to the ponds. My sleek graphite fly rod is nine feet long and weighs a mere 2 3/4 ounces; it trembles in my hand like something alive. Attached to the rod is a single-action reel holding 30 yards of rubbery green fly line and a nine-foot length of transparent nylon leader that at its free end tapers to gossamer fineness. And instead of a fly, Kuchynka ties a piece of knotted white yarn. “No flies at first,” he says. “It saves a lot of beginners from getting hooks stuck in their earlobes.” At the lodge's biggest pond, Winton demonstrates several casts. “Remember,” he sums up, “if you begin to have problems, and your cast is not working, slow it down.” These last three words become our mantra for fly-fishing: problems? “Slow it down.” In my practice casts, however, I can't seem to slow it down enough. The line literally whistles past my ear, slapping the back of my head so many times I'm thankful for the instructor's foresight in using yarn instead of a hook. Winton, observing my “technique,” says, “Too much wrist and arm motion. Try this.” He wedges the butt of the fly rod against his forearm and places his left hand in the bend of his right elbow. Then he casts. When I imitate his motion, he tells me, “Better, much better. But you need to stop your forward cast sooner and

just let the line float down to the water." I do this slowly and my casting does seem to improve. One of the trout thinks so, too. He gobbles my white yarn, then spits it out. We take time out for a fly-tying seminar at which Winton creates a "mosquito" out of black and white thread and a piece of feather. Using peacock hackles and grizzly hair, he makes a more elaborate fly called a "Lynch Mob." Each one is a beautiful imitation of the real thing. Later we're back at the ponds, where Winton explains how to lengthen casts by "false casting," which involves waving the rod back and forth without letting the line touch the water. Then he shows how to "shoot" line out on a cast to extend the casting distance. Suddenly, in the middle of his talk, Winton swipes up a handful of pond water. "Look here," he says. Perched on his thumb is a delicate just-emerged mayfly. "Trout love these things. So remember, when you're fishing and nothing seems to work, slow down, and you might see what they are eating."

When the time comes for some actual fishing, Winton ties on a fly and throws out line and places several graceful casts on the water. But nothing happens. No bites, no nibbles. "This is why they call this 'fishing,' not 'catching'," says Kuchynka. After several more casts, there's a swirl in the water where the fly should have been. Instantly Winton lifts his rod tip. Using his left hand he controls the line, keeping pressure on the fighting fish until it is exhausted. Then, leading it to shore, he slides his hand down the line to the fly and, with a slight twist of the hook, frees the fish. "That is the way to catch and release a fish," says Kuchynka. "And that is why we use barbless hooks." Now comes the moment we've all been waiting for: Winton and Kuchynka give us flies. And Winton warns, "As soon as you put a fly on and see a fish, you're going to forget everything you learned about technique." But nobody is listening. On my second cast, wham! a cruising trout hits the fly and takes it out into the center of the pond. Then he stops, and I reel in slack, but just when I think I've got him, he races back to the middle of the pond, leaps into the air, snaps his head like a dog shaking off water, plunges back in, and dives to the bottom. My trembling fly rod bends into a Ushape, and the gossamer leader stretches taut. But I can feel he's losing steam. Then it's all over, and I reel in the yards of line. "That fish is better than two pounds," someone comments, adding, "It'd be four pounds if I'd caught it."

The next day's class is held 12 miles from the lodge on a two-mile stretch of privately held "blue-ribbon" trout water, a place so special only five people a day are allowed to fish there. Here the discussion turns to bugs as Kuchynka dons waders and sloshes through the stream, turning over rocks to see what he can find in the way of aquatic insects. In a few minutes, he collects several stone fly and caddis fly nymphs-both high on the menu for trout - and puts them in a cocktail glass for all to see. Next Winton demonstrates stream-fishing tactics: first among them some advanced casts, in the process of which he lands several trout. Then Kuchynka scouts out the river for a lunker. The big fish he finds at the head of a long shaded pool in shallow water under

WHEN YOU GO

Greer Lodge sits at an elevation of 8,500 feet in the White Mountains area at the end of State Route 373. Take State 260 approximately 45 miles east of Show Low (11 miles west of Springerville), then turn south onto State 373. Five miles down the road is the community of Greer. The lodge is well marked at the south end of town. Tightlines Flyfishing of Tucson an overhanging branch in front of a halfsubmerged log - a difficult place to cast. Winton, unperturbed, approaches the pool at the tail end and, inching forward, carefully stalks the fish. Using just a single false cast, he loops his fly past the log and under the branch. It falls short. He tries again. Closer, but still not good enough. His third cast places the fly right in front of the big trout's nose. Bam! The fly disappears in a splash... stolen by a much smaller 11inch brown trout.

After everyone recovers, it's final exam time. I get a rod and a box of flies from Winton, then head downstream to a beaver pond surrounded by willows. The water is perfectly clear. Plenty of trout. But my first cast scatters them. I move to another pool. After several casts, using a variety of flies, casts, and retrieves, my fish count is zero. Then, just as I am about to give up, Orca the Whale appears, smocks my fly, jolts the rod, then turns and runs furiously upstream, stripping line from my reel all along the way. As I struggle with too little line and too much fish, a sizzling reel, and an arm and rod that fairly tremble, instructor Kuchynka appears. "Nice fish!" he shouts. "That's just the way I taught you."

I think I've aced the class.

Scenic Tour: Join the Friends of Arizona Highways and learn to fly fish or improve your technique - on an excursion to Greer Lodge, September 29 to October 2, 1994. For information, call the Friends' Travel Office, (602) 271-5904.

In 1974, not far from Greer, Pine-based Rick Heffernon hooked his first trout, using a 1/8-ounce fluorescent Z-Ray in the Black River. He also wrote about fishing hot spots in this issue.

Phoenix-based Richard Maack once did a lot of fishing in the Midwest, but since he became a professional photographer he's concentrated on catching only great photos.

and Arizona Flyfishing of Tempe offer several two-day beginning fly-fishing schools based at Greer Lodge. For more information, write or call Greer Lodge, Box 244, Greer, AZ 85927; (602) 735-7515.

A School on the Fly