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I can imagine to some that turning to fly-fishing was a pinnacle in their outdoors activities and to others just another day on the water with different challenges. In my memory fly-fishing came to me.

My Cub Scout friend and I used to catfish my hometown lake early in the morning, when I was 12, with rotten beef livers for a new challenge. I had mastered the art of catching bullheads during the previous summer and was on to larger fish. I caught my first catfish over ten fishing from the only dock under a willow tree at sun-up one day in July but more importantly learned the rewards of fishing Fountain Lake in the lower reservoir just above the dam.

I moved on from the dock under the willow tree days after catching that fish because I was awakened to the fact that my fishing buddy was a cheat. He had stolen the jack knife my father had given me from my tackle box that morning due to his upbringing.

I was captured by the fishes in this part of the reservoir at that point because there were more species than the two that I had by the dozens in the upper reservoir nearer my home. I began fishing Catherine Island that summer to quell my fishing passions. I met carp fly-fishermen on the walking bridge one day. I was instantly fascinated then and there that morning because I had never seen anyone use a long rod until that point.

I never figured out how to catch carp from that island with my spinning tackle in the days that I spent there because of the apparent attraction to the fly anglers flies. I moved on to fishing the dam that season because there was a rat nest under the bridge. I was captivated standing on the concrete dyke on top of the small dam every time a rat, or a team of rats, would run out from underneath the bridge. I caught my first fly rod in the flows below the dam one afternoon because I usually fished 3/8 –ounce two-inch long chartreuse twister tails on the bottom for 40-inch Common Carp, River Carp-suckers, Largemouth and Striped Bass, and the occasional Walleye. I hooked and landed the rod from the bottom of the channel one cast after I dragged my twister tail along the bottom.

The rod was but a shadow of its true form however it bore a reel. I had truly caught my first fly reel that day because someone else had lost all faith in it. I built my first spinning rod in Albert Lea that summer because I had broken my father's four and a half-foot long two-piece brown Fenwick ultra-light on one hell of a Carp. I rebuilt that old orange colored fiberglass rod that was originally of unknown length with a broken tip that I had found in a trash pile at the end of a driveway and saved rod on the back porch one weekend because I had nothing to fish with. It ended up being a five-foot long ultra-light with wraps that looked like a twelve-year old had wrapped it.

Two summers later I recycled enough old drink containers, both cans and bottles, to buy a clearance two-piece fiberglass "broom-handle" eight-weight blank and one footed guides from Netcraft. I had my work cut out for me in my bedroom at night after school because the nine-foot long rod had considerably more guides on it than my five-foot spinning rod. I finished the rod that fall during an incredible season fishing the Mud Lake drainage ditches. I also made my own flies in my father's garage that fall because my mother would have killed me for stealing her yarn. My grandparents bought me a spool of Cortland fly line from Wal-Mart for my fourteenth birthday so that I could use my lineless fly-fishing outfit.

I caught my first Northern Pike on a sucker minnow with my fly rod that fall. I didn't know how to tie an Albright knot at that age but knew enough that I needed a leader. When I set the hook on the fish that had taken my bobber under the knot holding my leader onto my fly line come out. I was able to still land that 30-inch fish, revive, and release it by snagging the leader with a Doctor spoon on my spinning rod.

The next spring I caught my first Brown Trout on that rod in a plunge pool eddy on the South Branch with flies my father had bought me out of the tackle shop vending machine in Spring Valley. My brother introduced me to King Salmon on Pike Creek for my twenty-second birthday. I learned quickly that twenty-pound Kings are not a species to fish without a drag, even on a spring creek. I had never stopped making the three-hour drive to the South Branch when I lived in Minneapolis because it was the one place that I knew where the only thing you need to ask for forgiveness from is the forest. I strategically applied to Winona State University in 2002 to close the distance from the city to my favorite spring creeks. I got accepted as a student by WSU, which gave me an excuse to move to the middle of the Driftless Area where I could study and more importantly to fish away my worries in life.

I now prefer a rod more than seven-feet long and casting with only the weight of the line. Fly-fishing is a balance in my life. It allows me an opportunity to quell my fascination with wild things because the forest where the fish live is rich with biodiversity. To me fly-fishing reiterates that being wild is completely natural. It affords me time to study, learn, and grow while being productive through creative means while taking on the challenges and responsibilities of the forest.