The Goldilocks Lesson

A fictional story

I remember fishing with my friend Frank, who is a fly fisher of discerning taste, and is constantly seeking the perfect stream. Not just any stream, mind you, but one that sings a particular song, where the trout rise with eagerness and strike with aggression.

One day, Frank and I went to the New River Gorge in West Virginia. The New River flows North, which is highly unusual for rivers on the East Coast. It is one reason scientists think it predates the Appalachian Mountains. It is also a great location for white water rafting. We waded in below the worst of the rapids. But the water was frothy, crashing against rocks. Frank cast his line, a delicate caddisfly imitation, but it was immediately swallowed by the churning currents, dragged under, and lost. "Too fast!" he declared, retrieving what remained of his leader. "Far too fast for a proper presentation." We decided to fish streamers, and it ended up being an okay outing.

Next, we ventured to the Mad River in Ohio, where the water was flowing at barely a trickle in the late summer sun. Dragonflies hovered lazily, and the air was thick with the hum of insects. Frank tried a tiny midge pattern, letting it drift with the almost imperceptible current. But the fish, if they were there at all, were equally lethargic. His indicator sat motionless for what felt like an eternity. A single, small sunfish eventually nudged his midge, but that was all. "Too slow," he complained, stripping in his line. "The fish here are practically napping." As I recall, I don’t think either of us got a single strike that day.

Finally, after a few days and much discussion, Frank and I decided to give the Brookville Tailwater in Indiana a try. The water here flowed with a gentle, consistent rhythm, clear as glass, revealing a mostly gravel bottom. Riffles danced over submerged rocks, creating perfect feeding lanes. Frank watched for a moment, observing the subtle rings on the surface as trout sipped tricos.

With a smile, Frank tied on a trico spinner, its white wings like a literal beacon against the morning light. His first cast was perfect – a graceful loop that unfurled gently, dropping the fly precisely upstream of a rising rainbow trout. The fly drifted, natural and unburdened, for only a few feet before the water beneath it exploded. The fight was spirited, the trout strong but not overwhelming, and Frank, with a practiced hand, brought a beautiful, muscular twelve-inch rainbow to his net. He admired its colors for a moment before gently releasing it back to the cool water.

"Finally," Frank said, a wide smile on his face. "Just right," he cast again, knowing he had found his perfect water.

My experience with Frank reminded me of the importance of balance for success. When the water is too fast or too slow the fishing can be challenging. But, when it is “just right” the fishing can be magic.