Grizzly Renegade
In the summer before 6th grade, my mom, with me and my two sisters, moved to Brussels, Belgium for a year of schooling abroad. Because of work and other reasons, my dad did not accompany us to Belgium. When we got off our plane and got into the taxi on the morning we arrived, the first thing I noticed was that everything was grey. Not exactly a place a trout would ever call home. The streets were crowded and the buildings were huge. This was an alien world to me…far from my familiar paradise in rural Eastern Washington. Every 3 months, my dad would take the long flight from Seattle over the “pond” and visit us for a short time. I savored the time we spent together. One day I asked him about taking an opportunity to fish in the Ardennes, a region filled with streams, trees, and if the “buzz” was true, hopefully trout. I was elated when he agreed, for it was so long since I had seen a trout that I forgot what they looked like.
Once we arrived in the Ardennes, we met two very accomplished fly fishermen. I was trying to converse with one, and although he spoke very little English, I had no trouble understanding him, because he spoke a universal language - that of fishing. He gave me a few huge weighed nymphs, told me to fish them under an indicator, with 2 split shot. He then showed me a picture in a magazine of him holding a 3 foot Salmo Trutta! I told him I didn’t like the idea of fishing this way, even if it would catch me a 15lb brown. All the grace of fly-fishing was lost in this technique. So, I headed off down river in search of a good pool. I rounded a bend in the river, and saw a stretch of water that just had to be holding fish. There was a beautiful run, flattening out into a deep, slow pool with one of the best tail outs I have ever seen. A tree overhung the water casting shade along the left bank.
I was giddy with anticipation as I opened my box in search of a worthy fly. My eyes fell on classic pattern called the Renegade. I had read about this fly in a book a few nights earlier, and decided to tie some up. The book had said the fly was a killer for Yellowstone Cutthroat, but the fish around here were no cutts. Research has shown that the average brown trout is 17 times more difficult to catch that the average cutthroat. If I had known this on that day, I probably would have put that fly back into the box. I’m glad I didn’t (youth and ignorance sometimes equals good luck and bliss). I tied the fly onto the tippet (which was thick enough to scare any brown in their right mind) and began to run it through the pool. On about the fifth cast I hooked a nice grayling, followed by 2 more. I was pretty happy with these fish, but wanted to get a brown. I looked up and eyed that shaded area of the river, with the overhanging log…it had to hold at least one brown.
I striped out all the line I thought I could handle, cast it out in front of the shaded area, and watched it drift. Nothing. The line was parallel to me now, and I began to pick it up for another cast. But the water exploded in a vicious take, and before I knew it my fish was tearing off down stream. I tried to hold the rod high, and I took off after the fish, madly trying to regain line. The battle was a short one and the trout was no match for my oversized tippet, so in a short time, I had the fish at my feat. But it made one last dash, far out into the river. I worried about hundreds of things: would the hook hold, would the line snap, did I have a wind knot, would the fish snag me on the bottom? But, I was meant to land this trout, and after a bit of sulking out in the current, it came into the shallows. I fell on the brown, grabbing it and throwing it onto the bank. There is not a word in the English language to describe how I felt. Perhaps only fisherman can understand the sort of feeling. As I walked up to the fish, I could see what a beautiful specimen it was. Not of great size, perhaps 18 inches, but every spot had a little pink splash, every scale was right, and the fins were white tipped. There was not a blemish on its body; this trout was the most amazing animal I had ever laid eyes on. Being 11, and being very proud of that fish, I decided to keep it, something I now feel horrible about. A trout like that deserves to be let go, but it did make a very fine meal (and story) that night.
I included this pattern not because it catches lots of fish, or that it is beautiful, but because there is a special story behind it. Every fly fisherman has flies like my renegade, a pattern more valuable to them than any other great fish catchers.