Few things on Earth have pleased me as much lately as my just-turned-eight year old son turning out to have the fly fishing gene. He’s a machine. Powers through weeds higher than him. Keeps score. Because the score is important. Creek chub cower at his passage.
James engages with a Nissin Fine Mode Kosansui 320, which earlier this year TenkaraBum was selling as his kid’s starter set. He has a pair of youth chest waders that are a bit big for him and a Moonlit Fly Fishing vest which is way too big for him, but he likes it.
It’s startling how he’s taken to it. He casts a 3.5 level line and puts flies where he wants them to go. He can identify fish species. He releases most of his fish himself, except when they’ve taken it a bit deep (common shiners are bad for this) and I step in with the fine nosed pliers. Most of all, he just goes and goes and goes. We don’t push things, obviously, because he’s only eight. But there’s no real compromise involved – it’s two dudes fishing. He gets snagged and his tippet gets snarled. But I get snagged and my tippet gets snarled. Pretty much as often. Days on the stream with my son feel sort of achingly precious.