Men and women approach things differently.   Fly fishing is no exception.   Whether it is a battle with the elements, the hunter/gatherer instinct, or the simply the pace of the day; the opposite sexes arrive at the same goal but through varied means.   Working in a fly shop offers me a unique female perspective into this mostly male dominated sport.

 

Over the last few years I have learned that Mother Nature is in charge and if she is not happy than neither am I.   I try to avoid downpours, blizzards, and hurricane force winds.   Living in Montana has spoiled me in that respect.   Following the old adage, “if you don’t like the weather, give it a few minutes”, I have waited out many passing storms under the cover of a streamside “facility” while Steve perseveres and gets soaked to the bone.   A mere twenty minutes later I emerge dry, comfortable, and ready to take on some trout.   Miss Nature also guides me over the winter months.   Often a warm February day, and I use that term loosely, will bring out an afternoon midge hatch.   Steve will get dressed up to look like Randy from “A Christmas Story” and head to Raynold’s Pass.   I decided a long time ago that too many layers make my butt look big and I would rather get in shape on the ski trails to prepare for the bones in Belize .   You might be tempted to call me a fair weather fisherman and you would be right.   However, I have never fished through a wet t-shirt contest, can always feel my fingers, and have only hooked myself in the back a few times.   Once I hooked Steve in the nose, but that is a different story.

 

I like to keep things simple and carry only the necessities.   Of course, like other women, this applies only to my fishing pack.   Anyone who has witnessed a half hour search through a purse, a.k.a. the bottomless abyss, for a tissue or cough drop will agree.   On a typical day of fishing, I carry a hip pack, camera, water, and bear spray.   In my pack are four small fly boxes, forceps, nippers, Hydrophobe, Frog’s Fanny, leaders, 0X-5X tippet, bug spray, sun block, and TP.   On the other hand, if I were to list the contents of a typical guy’s fifty pound plus fishing vest, this article would quickly turn into a novella.   Let’s face it boys, that pair of lucky socks stuffed into the back of your vest from the 1986 State Championship Football game are not helping you catch more fish.   They just stink.

 

My fly selection also reflects these simplistic values.   I try not to carry more than four boxes of flies.   They usually are grouped into the broad categories of attractors, terrestrials, mayflies, and caddis.   I can keep a minimal quantity of flies on hand because I work in a fly shop and can easily replenish my stock.   I also know that the flies I pick up at Blue Ribbon Flies will “produce”, to quote the infamous film producer-Phil Takatsuno.   These patterns have been tested on the waters of Yellowstone by the best of the best.   There have been countless hours of on-stream research and multiple trips to the vise to create each trout catching machine.   Fortunately, the experts have already done all of the work which allows me the luxury of focusing on technique.   If a fish that is consistently rising to a size 16 Pale Morning Dun on the Firehole will not give my size 16 PMD Cripple the time of day, I initially think about my drift, my presentation, and my approach.   Many guys will change flies a dozen times before realizing they are standing in the middle of the best hole on the river and that their flies seem to have come with a factory standard Evinrude motor attached.

 

Last spring, Tom Cornell and I headed out for the afternoon during a pre-runoff Baetis hatch on the Madison .   Tom is one of our awesome guides, a fly fishing fool, and an excellent fly tier.   However, he, like most men, has succumbed to the powers of the Y chromosome and feels the need to keep everything he has ever owned.   His packs, that’s right plural, may also be explained as a side effect from guiding or an innate attraction to small objects.   None the less, Tom arrived with a hundred pounds of fishing paraphernalia hanging from him.   I took one look and decided that if there was something missing from my arsenal, I was sure I could borrow it from Tom.   He sat down on the bank and began to pull fly boxes, split shot, indicators, fresh leaders, Gink, and a candy bar from multiple zippered pockets.   We enjoyed the chocolate covered nougat and discussed fly selection.   There was a size 18 Royal PMX at the end of my line.   I suddenly remembered Steve grabbed my Sage the week before and mumbled something about having an important business meeting with Craig.   Anyway, he left the leader in good shape.   While Tom put together a double nymph rig with all the trimmings, I made a few casts to the juicy slick in front of us.   Before Tom tied the first of three clinch knots in his elaborate nymphing setup, the distinctive sound of a hook set was heard.   I landed a colorful, seventeen inch brown trout before he had even attached the split shot.   Tom and I had a great day and laughed at how differently our plans of attack where for the river.

 

Finally, I slow things down and look around at the beauty that surrounds us.   I know this sounds like a left over from my yoga class, but Yellowstone Country has so many unique sights to offer.   There are not many places in the world where you can fish next to bison, or pass hot pots on the trail.   Even the mountains and the bald eagles soaring overhead demand our attention.   Many guys get so focused on the piece of water at hand that they miss the big picture.   Steve, Tom, and I hiked to Fan Creek, a tributary of the Gallatin , this summer.   It was a long hike and we had limited hours to fish.   When we arrived at the upper meadow, the boys immediately sped to the stream, and hop-scotched each other feverishly trying to cover as much water as possible.   I stopped to check out a bear print in the mud, sat down for some water, and saw a subtle rise on the opposite bank.   A black cricket crawled over my boot, so I tied on Steve’s Longhorn.   The guys finally noticed I was missing and came back to find me catching a number of quality fish in the water they had rushed through.   Good things happen when you take your time.

 

No matter how opposite the approach men and women take to the water, the end result is the same.   Whether it is a take-no-prisoners attitude or a carefree view, we all enjoy days on a majestic river filled with healthy trout.   The contrasts I see from men and women in the realm of fly-fishing are actually different effects from the same cause-a love for the sport.