Amateurs and Experts:  Exploring the Differences between them

Virtually every summer weekend it’s possible to turn on the television and watch a PGA golf tournament. By and large, these tournaments feature the best golfers in the world. The skills these golfers demonstrate are numerous, impressive, and subject to endless analysis. If you play also, it’s easy to see how your game stacks up against theirs. And after watching the professionals hit the ball, I’m very much aware that I play the game nowhere near their level. Striking the ball cleanly—time and again—is but one reason they’re professionals and the rest of us aren’t, and this can be seen clearly during every telecast.

Things are a little different in the sport of fly fishing. Opportunities to watch expert fly fishermen are scarce. Not only because real experts are a rare commodity to begin with, but also because there aren’t any readily available forums for watching them. Forget the TV fishing shows and almost all fishing videos—they seldom showcase expert anglers. Even when they do, it’s tough to truly appreciate their skills. Too much of what separates the expert from the amateur doesn’t translate well to the screen.

To gain appreciation for the skills of an expert, I think you pretty much have to stand alongside one, watching as he or she fishes. Of course, this isn’t easy to do either. But not having the chance to watch an expert has never kept the amateur angler from wondering, how do they fish differently than me?

Here are a few thoughts, based on observations I’ve made over the years. (Incidentally, I know the terms “amateur” and “expert” aren’t exactly opposites and that they’re also subject to definition. Let’s just say the experts are those operating at the highest levels of skill with respect to knowledge and ability, and that the amateurs are somewhere beneath that—usually quite far beneath. In golf terms, think pro golfer versus a 15 handicapper.)

One of the most significant differences between expert fly fishermen and amateurs lies in the level of respect they accord their quarry. Not respect in the conventional sense of, say, honoring and appreciating fish as symbols of the wild (I would hope anglers of all skill levels bring this to the sport), but rather respect in the sense of understanding that the fish they’re trying to catch are wild.

Most wild animals, fish included, possess formidable survival instincts. Instincts that in varying degrees make them difficult to find, approach, fool, and capture. Expert anglers understand this completely. Indeed, their approach to fishing is deeply informed by the knowledge that in order to capture a wild trout (especially a larger specimen), an essential first step is respecting its wildness.

In that regard, amateurs generally fail. They don’t fully appreciate the fact that wild trout behavior is all about survival, and not about offering themselves up for our angling pleasure. Because of this amateurs end up committing many errors in their fishing, including but not limited to questionable tackle choice, careless approaches, and poor fly presentation. Though it may seem as if respect has nothing to do with this, on a very fundamental level it has everything to do with it.

Expertise can be thought of as a combination of knowledge and ability. In an expert angler knowledge is multifaceted. There is the conceptual knowledge of fly fishing itself—understanding the various methods and tactics that may be employed, equipment theory, etc. There is specific knowledge of fish species—where they live, how they behave, when they feed, what kind of food they eat. Also, there is a deep knowledge of additional factors that affect fishing such as weather, water conditions, insects and/or other food items.

This knowledge base is sometimes overlooked as part of the expert’s skill set. This is due partly, I think, to the fact that you can’t see it. And owing to individual personality, there’s often no inkling of it even when talking face to face with an expert. It’s always present, however, and before their first cast is ever made this knowledge has been brought to bear in deciding where to fish, when to fish, and how to fish. That’s why more often than not an expert ends up in the right place at the right time.

Ability can entail many things. It can be a physical skill, such as superior casting. It can be manifested as a mental skill; the capacity for long periods of intense concentration is an example. Often, an expert ability includes both mental and physical aspects. The power of observation is one of these.

Experts are observant by nature. They’re in touch with their surroundings. They consistently see things that escape the notice of the amateurs. One reason for this is that the best anglers have exceptional eyesight. Another is that they possess the cognitive ability to interpret the significance of what their eyes see—around the water, on the water, and in the water. Add together good eyes, strong cognitive powers and many years of experience, and you end up with powers of observation that vastly exceed those of the amateur. Specific examples of skillful observation can include spotting fish underwater, correctly interpreting fish behavior, observing subtle rises and other signs of feeding activity. In the case of selective feeding, it can mean figuring out which particular food item the fish are taking.

Stealth is another skill with both mental and physical attributes, and it’s one that experts possess in spades. Stealth can take many forms—crawling unobserved through minimal cover to approach a fish, wading a pool without disturbance, remaining motionless for minutes at a time while stalking fish. Different kinds of fishing often require different degrees of stealth. The ability to recognize this and employ just the right amount in any given situation is another quality that separates the expert from the amateur.

Closely related to stealth is patience. I consider patience primarily a mental faculty, and the ability to incorporate it to the degree required is a hallmark of the expert angler. Like stealth, patience can be manifested in many ways. Maybe it’s in waiting on the weather, or waiting on a hatch. Maybe it’s in waiting for a big fish to establish a regular feeding rhythm before casting to it. Patience also plays an important role when it comes to fighting fish—especially big fish.

When it comes to employing the right amounts of observation, stealth, and patience, amateur anglers frequently come up short. Some of this is due merely to inexperience. A large part of it, however, appears bound up in the all-to-common notion that if we’re not standing in the water actively casting, then we’re not fishing. But here the expert can teach us a valuable lesson: observation is fishing. How much is necessary may change with every situation, but the need for it never—I repeat, never—goes away.

Casting is perhaps the most important physical skill in fly fishing. (There is a mental aspect here as well, but for our purposes we’ll ignore it.) That the expert casts better than the amateur is a given. But what, exactly, does “better” mean? There isn’t a simple answer here, since a number of interrelated elements are always involved in casting. Let’s look at a few of them.

When it comes to the mechanics of casting, the expert’s form is generally faultless. Their casting strokes are built from fundamentally sound, repeatable movements. Good casting fundamentals are important because they allow complete control of the fly line—from altering the size and shape of the casting loop to adjusting the line’s speed, direction, placement and manipulation on the water. Experts can perform all the necessary casts and line maneuvers required for effective fly presentation. On the other hand, amateur’s strokes suffer almost universally from any number of technical flaws.

Another part of expert-level fly casting is the ability to maintain an awareness about what’s occurring in the space between the fisherman and the fish. Experts pay close attention to the water and its movement, always considering the effects it may have on the line, leader, and fly. They’ll note the presence of wind—its strength, direction, consistency. They may consider such factors as the angle of the sun in relation to the fish. These things are taken into account before the first cast is made, because they serve to inform about exactly what kind of cast will be required.

Experts will ask themselves if a straight-line cast is okay, or whether slack is necessary. If slack is called for, how much and where in the cast should it be positioned? How much line speed is needed to achieve the correct distance, or to counteract the wind? Should the fly land hard to the water? Softly? Is there a risk that the rod or line will spook the fish? Whatever the situation, experts are always thinking ahead. If several different kinds of cast could work, the expert invariably chooses the easiest one.

In contrast, amateurs all too frequently cast first (from wherever they happen to be standing at the moment) and make adjustments later, after the need for them has become obvious. Even when the subsequent adjustments are correct they often come too late to matter. The fish have already been alerted to the angler’s presence, put down, or spooked completely.

Accuracy is a critical element of casting. Unsurprisingly, experts exhibit a substantially greater degree of it than do amateurs. Put simply, they can deliver the fly where it needs to go. More subtly, they can put the fly where it needs to go on the first cast. Most fishermen know that the opportunity to catch a fish is never better than on the initial cast, which is why the experts are always working to make their first cast their best cast.

Let’s remember, however, that no one is perfect. We all make errant casts. It’s just that when the experts err it’s generally done in a way that doesn’t cost them a chance at a fish. For instance, when casting to a rising trout the expert typically misses short or wide, keeping the fly and leader away from the fish. He’ll also miss with delicacy, avoiding crashing the line or leader on the water. Done this way it’s possible to get numerous chances at a given fish. Amateurs often lack the ability to make repeated casts close enough to a fish to catch it without alerting it to their presence or spooking it outright.

The ability to cast long distances is commonly held as a quality that separates experts from amateurs. But I don’t think you have to be able to cast long distances (for discussion’s sake, say over 80 feet with a 5-weight outfit) to be considered an expert angler. Distance isn’t everything. Yet the creme de la creme of experts certainly can cast long, and in the right place at the right time they benefit greatly from that ability.

It’s sort of like the pro golf tour. Every player on the tour is an expert golfer, but not every one of them will be a tournament winner. That’s because they often lack one or more of the little extra skills that puts a player on top. For fly fishermen, the ability to cast extreme distances is one of those little extra skills. While it guarantees nothing and isn’t required often, when it is required nothing can replace it. So while anglers that can’t cast long may still be experts, they’re a definite notch below those who can.

Another difference between experts and amateurs lies in their understanding of tackle. Experts own and employ the right equipment for the type of fishing they’re doing. That means the right rod, reel, line, and leader. They know how it functions together and they also know its limits. This is important in every step of the fishing process, but especially critical when it comes to fighting fish.

Knowing the maximum amount of pressure that can be applied to a fish, and knowing when and how to apply it are subtle skills that the experts have acquired and refined. Amateurs generally lack knowledge about the limits of their tackle and the physical feeling of operating at the edge of those limits. Consequently they frequently make mistakes when fighting fish. Perhaps the most common is that of underplaying the fish—failing to push their tackle near enough to its breaking point. This unnecessarily gives fish more time and opportunity to escape and also adds to the physical stress they must endure.

Of course, there are many other differences between the amateurs and experts. It’s unfortunate that we lack better opportunities to watch the experts in person, because that’s the one place where you can gain an appreciation for what’s really possible in this sport. Should you ever have the chance to watch or fish with an expert, I’d recommend jumping at it. Pay close attention to what they do, and I’m certain your own fishing will benefit tremendously.
 

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The Moment of Truth

It's late summer on a meadow stream, and a trout rises for a terrestrial imitation.  The first hint of the angler's response can be seen in the slight movement of the leader.   

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Vignettes from the Fork

I had the rare pleasure yesterday of fishing the Henry's Fork with Doug Daufel.  (Many of you will remember Doug and his brother Dan from their years of working in the shop.)  Doug is a highly skilled fisherman, capable of tackling the most difficult trout fishing situations.  And for anyone looking for challenging fishing right now, the Henry's Fork is a fine option.  The water is low, the fish spooky, and the flies plenty.  We saw lots of Callibaetis spinners, Attenella margarita spinners, large flying ants, small flying ants, and some stray caddis.  Here are a few photos from the morning.  

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Pick A Hopper, Any Hopper:  Why The One You Choose Doesn’t Matter

 

A widely held belief in fly fishing is that fly pattern matters. Matters in the sense that success is dependent on having the right fly. In fact, an unwavering belief in the importance of fly pattern is practically a given in this sport: Tie on the right fly and you’ll catch fish. Not catching fish? Obviously, you don’t have the right fly. But considering the myriad of other factors involved, the premise that the fly makes the difference, that it alone determines whether or not we catch fish, is suspect. And never more so than when it comes to grasshopper patterns.

Ah, yes, hoppers. Favorites among anglers, those. After all, they come in limitless shapes, sizes, and colors. They appeal equally to our inner shopper and our sense of hope. Who among us hasn’t salivated over the variety of patterns available in fly shops and catalogs? What fly tier hasn’t spent time devising his or her own hopper, all the while envisioning boundless success? If only we can see our way to choosing or tying the right pattern, no trout anywhere are safe.

Well, not to rain on anyone’s parade, but it doesn’t really work that way. At least in my experience. Here’s why I think the hopper we choose is irrelevant to success.

Let’s assume that we’re hopper fishing on a popular river like the Madison. Let’s also assume that being preoccupied with watching our hopper drift along on the current leaves us unaware of events taking place beneath the surface. Say now that we catch some fish. Enough to give us confidence that the hopper we used was the right one—a real killer, indeed. Afterwards, we tell all who will listen that we’ve got the must-have fly, the hot fly.

But I wonder if you’d still feel that way if you knew that only one out of three or four fish that showed interest in your fly actually took it? I know I wouldn’t. I’d be questioning my choice of fly. Yet, refusals are inevitable when hopper fishing. They’re an everyday, common occurrence, and they always outnumber takes.

How do I know this? From spending lots of time sight-fishing. Some forty years worth, actually. (I offer this not by way of braggadocio, but merely to point out that, as Yogi Berra so famously remarked, you can observe a lot by watching. And observing underwater events—a necessary part of sight-fishing—can change the way we think about this sport and influence the conclusions we draw about it.) What my experience shows is that for every fish that takes a hopper, as many as three or four will refuse it.

I like to think that if most anglers were aware of this, their enthusiasm for particular patterns would diminish quickly. Mine certainly has.

When we fail to see refusals to our fly, we often end up drawing conclusions about fly pattern based only on those fish that rise and take. We don’t know anything else because we can’t see anything else. So we catch some fish and assume blithely that we’ve got the right fly. But our successful day (insert your own number of fish caught) doesn’t look quite the same if achieving it requires three to four times as many fish looking at our fly. Evaluating hopper effectiveness isn’t about the absolute number of fish caught, but rather the proportion of fish that took versus those that just looked. (It’s not my intention here to slight any degree of success. Catching fish is still the point, regardless of how many refusals we might incur in the process. I’m just saying that whether you’ve caught two fish or twenty-two, a particular hopper pattern isn’t responsible.)

Indeed, since a trout can only take the fly that’s tied to our line, belief in that fly as the limiting factor becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. It’s only when we become aware of the refusals as well as the takes that we can begin to judge fly pattern fairly. In my own fishing one thing I always try to do is be cognizant of matters above and below the water’s surface. Consequently, I’ve become acutely aware that no matter what hopper I fish, refusals aplenty will result. Refusals that run the gamut from the briefest nod or twitch of the fins to those where a trout drifts backwards for several feet, mere inches from the fly, inspecting and finally dismissing it.

Because of this experience, I consider all hopper patterns to be equal. They all work and they all fail. Which is exactly why I don’t think it matters which one you choose to use. Of great interest to me is why this is so.

One possible explanation may lie with the natural hoppers themselves. They’re good sized insects, and rainbow and brown trout often develop caution towards big, floating flies like hoppers and stoneflies. Even though they eat them both, it is seldom with abandon. (I’ve said for years—only half kiddingly—that trout actually hate salmonflies. Given a choice between a salmonfly and a smaller food item like a caddisfly, they’ll almost always choose the smaller fly.) Certainly there are times when trout do feed avidly on stoneflies and hoppers, but it seems that those times are more the exception than the rule. All of which suggests that catching fish is dictated by something other than fly pattern. Interestingly, cutthroat trout seem to have an innate attraction to large floating objects, which renders fly pattern immaterial to them as well, but from a completely different perspective.

Something else I’ve noticed is that once a fish has refused a hopper imitation, changing patterns seldom elicits further interest, let alone a strike. It seems to me that, on any given day, fish are either hopper takers or not. This again points to something other than fly pattern as the determining factor in whether or not a fish takes a hopper.

Another observation: After spending a fair amount of time guiding on the Madison River and even more time listening to other guide and angler reports, it seems to me that when hopper fishing is good, it’s good for everyone. And that when it’s bad, it’s bad for everyone. Hopper pattern doesn’t seem to matter, nor does the skill of the angler. (With hundreds of anglers a day fishing the Madison, we can be certain a variety of hoppers are getting a workout, with varying levels of expertise.) And though a skilled fisherman invariably catches more fish than an unskilled one, success—or lack thereof—seems to remain relative. I admit that this good-for-all, bad-for-all assertion may be seen as pure conjecture, but you’d be surprised at how often this scenario plays out. Not just on the Madison, either.

Concerning angling skill, if hopper pattern was in fact responsible for our success, we should see it manifested in the results of anglers with dissimilar skills. For instance, an average angler with the “magic” hopper (one capable of actually attracting fish) should be able to out-fish an expert who lacks the same hopper. And a rank beginner should catch more fish than someone of moderate ability. But this isn’t what happens. Ever. What does happen is that over the course of a day fish are caught in direct proportion to an angler’s ability. Similarly, in the hands of an expert the “magic” hopper should never fail. But at various times and for whatever reasons, all hoppers do.

It’s often thought that fishing pressure is a factor in the productivity of fly patterns. The point generally raised is that hard-fished trout, having been caught and released a number of times, become wary of certain flies and learn to avoid them. While I think this is possible, I don’t think it’s the case with hoppers. That’s because, as I alluded to earlier, hopper fishing success seems to run on a much broader scale. It’s less about an individual fish taking or refusing a hopper, and more about how a population of fish feel about hoppers on a given day.

If we accept the premise that pattern doesn’t matter, what then? Do we simply pick a favorite hopper and fish it exclusively? Sure, we could do that, but I can think of several reasons why we shouldn’t. None that pertain to the trout, mind you, but rather ones that have everything to do with us as humans.

For starters, carrying a number of different hoppers allows us to change patterns when the fishing is slow. Even though I believe this doesn’t matter to the fish, switching patterns is still useful because it serves to reignite our interest. Suddenly, we fish with more concentration. Our casting has renewed purpose. Our presentations improve. And lo and behold, quite frequently we catch a trout.

Catching a fish right after a fly change may be seen as a direct repudiation of my premise. We changed flies, caught a fish, ergo the fly mattered. But I contend that what caught that fish was not the new fly, but a better presentation aided by renewed focus. We can never know for sure, but the weight of evidence over my years of fishing suggests to me that the act of changing flies, far more than the specific fly we change to, is what’s important.

Another reason to carry different kinds of hoppers is to help cope with visibility issues. Not visibility of our flies to the fish; they don’t need our help. Rather, visibility of the fly to us. As water and light conditions change, certain hopper patterns are more easily seen than others. Being able to see our fly allows us to know where our casts land, where the fly is at any given moment, and how it’s drifting. When the fly is visible, our presentations almost always improve. Which leads, of course, to more fish caught.

Owing to basic human nature, carrying a variety of hoppers also provides a certain psychological comfort. After all, as humans we generally enjoy having choices in life. Why treat fly patterns differently?

So feel free to tie, buy, carry and use all the different hoppers you like. Just don’t try to convince me that one is any better than another—at least when it comes to catching fish.

Note: Late in the process of writing this article, I was struck by an additional thought: What if we simply haven’t yet devised the hopper pattern that does make a difference to the trout? It’s an interesting notion. While observation and experience tell me it’s not going to happen, the fisherman inside me is willing to hold out hope. If you happen to discover a hopper that does indeed matter to the fish, I’d love to see it. Please send one along. Post-haste.
 

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When The Clouds Hung Low

After several weeks of dry weather, a storm laden with light rain moved over this area yesterday morning. Of course, that necessitated the immediate shirking of all other responsibilities in order to make a trip down to the Henry's Fork.  The few fishermen that stuck out the early morning rain delay—among them my brother, Tom, pictured here—were rewarded with a nice mixed emergence of Attenella margarita, Pale Morning Dun, and Baetis mayflies.  Enough fish rose to keep a die-hard angler occupied through the afternoon.             

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