Fitness is an Issue

by John Bailey

It’s a Sunday night and I’ve just been watching events on a local, commercial fishery. Two guys in particular caught the eye; both of them fishing the ten acre water in the late afternoon, quite alone after the car park had otherwise been emptied.

One of the men, a good angler, fished pretty well totally static, concentrating on a single area of the bank. Of course, it was a prime location, one he knows well and always aims for. I watched him closely. He fished intelligently and efficiently, once or twice changing outfits to sinking or floating lines as conditions dictated. He frequently changed fly and retrieval rates. He ended up with two fish for the afternoon, both good, fully-finned rainbows in the two and a half to three pound class.

The second guy I watched even more closely – albeit at times necessarily through binoculars. He was much more mobile. In fact, he circumnavigated (if that’s the right word) the lake completely, twice. He fished from most of the areas as he went, especially if any rainbows were showing. However, after five or six minutes in any given place, he was off, moving quickly and energetically down the bank. As far as I could tell, he only fished the one floating line set up and rarely, if ever, changed his fly. He confirmed my head count later – seven fish for the two and a half hours he was on the water. He missed another four takes, had two fish come off and witnessed several follows.

Of course, this is hardly a scientific experiment. I’m well aware that what I experienced was something far too flimsy to draw any firm conclusions from. However, that’s not going to stop me trying!

• Enjoyment factor? Well, perhaps, the guy who fished static had just as much fun as the man who was mobile. But I personally somewhat doubt it. The mobile man (MM for short hereafter) talked to me just as much about the wildlife he had seen as the fish he had caught. He also spent a lot of time in the distant parts of the lake which are far more beautiful than the area close to the car park.

• And the facts of the afternoon seemed to suggest that his mobile approach was more successful. Perhaps he covered more fish. Perhaps the fish that he did cover were less spooked and less suspicious because he spent so little time fishing over them. Perhaps he didn’t have to change fly much because very few fish ever saw his fly more than once or twice.

• The two men fished differently and, after a conversation with them both, thought differently. MM was much more concerned with enjoying a day out rather than being deadly efficient. Static Man seemed much more focused on what actually lay in his boot to be taken home. I dread to think what his mood would have been had his particular ‘swim’ been occupied on his arrival.

• The two men, also, looked very different. Both about the same height, one of them around fifteen stone, the other twelve stone. I don’t have to tell you which was which.

Of course, I’m not for a moment saying that anyone in the fishing game should become obsessive with physical fitness. Not like members of the French fly fishing team. I have it on good authority that these unfortunates actually have to race fully loaded, in chestwaders over a measured, hundred metre course with rod and landing net in hand. Perhaps measures like this are necessary in a match but not, obviously, on a casual Sunday afternoon.

However, I suppose if you are fitter then you fish for longer, with less fatigue and, therefore, with more concentration. It’s worth bearing in mind. Perhaps you don’t need that extra sandwich, that extra bit of pudding. Perhaps the stairs could be more attractivbe than the lift. Perhaps a glass of white wine rather than a pint of beer. But I’m not, at all, going to preach.

But I haven’t given up, yet! I’ve got to make a last point. I would say that most of the really fine, river fly fishermen that I know are fit. Jeremy Lucas. Stuart Crofts. Even Howard Croston is getting down the gym these days. And Nick Hart is like a whippet! But don’t think I’m being sizeist! I once had a great fishing chum called Tubs so you can imagine his general profile. He fished like a dream. He enjoyed every cast. He’d catch six fish to every one of mine. He never moved more than four yards from the spot where he threw down his bag. And believe me his bag held far more alcohol than it did flies. And there never was and never will be a better bloke to fish with.

The moral of all this? Well, it’s pretty obviously right down to you.