Stage 1 – Spark and Curiosity
It never starts with the technical stuff. Not tippet diameters, or casting mechanics, or drag-free drifts. It starts with a feeling. Maybe it’s a photo of someone holding some trout so vivid it looks hand painted. Or a short film where mist rises off a mountain stream and the angler moves like they're in some slow-motion dance with the river. Maybe a friend told you about it—about the calm, the challenge, the joy. However, it finds you, something inside flickers and whispers: I need to try this.
You don’t know much. Maybe you assume fly fishing is just regular fishing with a longer pole. Maybe you’ve heard vague terms like “dry fly” and “hatch” but have no idea what they mean. That’s okay. Curiosity is fuel. You start poking around online. You google things like “is fly fishing hard?” and “how do you tie those little feathery things?” You watch your first casting video and think; I can do that. And so, begins the descent into the beautiful madness.
Stage 2 – First Casts and Some Frustration
So, you take the plunge. You buy a rod and reel combo from a local shop or an online kit promising “Everything You Need!” (It almost never is.) You unbox it all, start threading the line through the guides like a seasoned pro—only backwards the first time. Then it’s time to cast. This is the moment. You're standing on the edge of a lake, or maybe wading into a small stream, feeling confident… and then you whip the line forward and—snap!—your fly lands in a tree behind you. Or worse, right back in your own hat.
This is where the frustration sets in. Casting isn’t intuitive. Knots are maddening. Your line tangles in ways that seem to defy physics. You tie on a fly only to realize later it was meant for saltwater tarpon, not mountain brook trout. You start asking yourself: What does “mend the line” mean? and Why are there twelve types of mayflies? Still, something keeps you coming back. Maybe it’s the rhythm of the cast when it finally flows. Or the sound of water around your boots. Or maybe—gloriously—it's your first fish. Tiny. Probably half an accident. But real. Your hands shake as you cradle it, admire its color, and let it slip back home. You’re in. Frustrated, flailing—but hooked.
Stage 3 – Hooked and Hungry to Learn More
This is the metamorphosis stage. You’re no longer just dabbling. You are now a fly fisher. At least in your heart. Your evenings are filled with casting tutorials, fly-tying videos, and stream reports. You spend more time researching hatches than checking the news. You start to get it: That’s why they call it a “dead drift.” That’s how you tell a stonefly from a caddis. That’s why my fly was being completely ignored all day.
Your vocabulary expands at a concerning rate. “Indicator,” “soft hackle,” “reach cast,” “Euro-nymphing.” You’re still a beginner, but now you know you’re a beginner—and that makes all the difference. Gear enters your life like a slow invasion. You now own more spools of tippet than socks. You start tying flies—ugly, chaotic blobs at first—but they’re yours. A fish eats your homemade bug and you feel like Da Vinci.
Suddenly, you’re talking with strangers about water temps and river gauges. You join forums. You befriend that grumpy guy at the fly shop. You fish with mentors. You learn not just the how, but the why behind everything. You’re no longer asking, Can I do this? Now you're asking, How deep can I go?
Stage 4 – Expansion and Exploration
You’ve found your rhythm. You’re catching fish regularly. You’re dialed in on your local water (Driftless of course). So now the question becomes: What’s next? You hear stories of big brown trout sipping flies on technical tailwaters. Or striped bass blitzing baitfish on the coast. Or bonefish in clear flats so shallow you can see their shadows. And you want in. So, you branch out. You explore small, forgotten creeks no one else fishes. You hike miles into the backcountry with a rod strapped to your pack and a headlamp for the walk out. You fish lakes, ponds, ditches, reservoirs. You go after new species—bass, carp, steelhead, even panfish on a 2-weight rod.
You start to appreciate the weird stuff: casting in the wind, adapting to spooky fish, improvising when you’ve forgotten your net (again). Travel enters the picture. You start planning road trips around rivers. You collect memories from places: a quiet bend on the Madison, a stormy afternoon on the Arkansas, a secret hole behind a gas station you’re sworn never to reveal. Each place humbles you and teaches you something new. And you love it all. Even the wildlife, bad Airbnb’s and hole-in-the-wall bars as they remind you that it’s not about catching. Not entirely.
Stage 5 – Stewardship and Soulfulness: It’s not just fishing anymore.
Eventually, the need to catch fades into something quieter. Something richer. You notice everything around the act of fishing: the animal tracks in the mud, the stonefly clinging to your waders, the way the clouds slide across the canyon walls. You realize you’ve become part of this place. Not just a visitor, but a steward. You pick up trash without thinking. You kiss and release fish with reverence. You get involved with conservation efforts or donate to protect the rivers you love.
You teach others. Maybe it’s your kid. Maybe it’s a stranger who wanders up while you’re rigging your rod. You watch them fumble through their first cast, and instead of judging, you remember your own first tangle. And you smile. Fly fishing becomes therapy, meditation, a kind of slow-motion prayer. The rhythm of casting feels like breathwork. Time slows down. And whether you catch a fish or not, you come home feeling better. More yourself. There are days when you leave the rod in the car and just walk the bank. You sit, watch the water, and feel a deep, unspoken connection—to the river, the fish, the land, and something ancient within yourself.
Fly fishing is a strange, wonderful, humbling pursuit. It begins with curiosity and becomes a lifelong journey. You will revisit every stage—yes, even frustration. Because you know it’s bigger than just catching fish.
