It's called fishing, not catching

The trill of the red-wing blackbirds in the rushes, the tumble of cold, clear water over sand and rock, the breeze rustling the dormant remains of last year's reeds along the riverbank and a warm sun beckon. The skis stay in the corner as I retrieve my flyrod from its dusty perch.

Yeah, there's nothing like a couple of early spring days on the river to make skiing through slush look all the more inviting. Let's just say things are off to a slow start, giving me plenty of time to ponder the unlikely pursuit that is flyfishing.

Think about it: I venture into public wearing chest waders that make me look like a bloated version of the Michelin Man, accessorized with boots from the Frankenstein collection and an array of unsightly bulges that are the pockets in my overstuffed vest. A net, carried mostly for decoration, dangles from the back of my collar and swings around to smack me in the face each time I bend over, which is often. I lose flies, at two bucks a pop, faster than a tourist can drop dollars on an Aspen vacation, and prick my flesh often enough to open a blood bank. All this on the off chance that I will catch a fish that I'm not allowed to keep.

It makes golf sound like fun.

Nonetheless, on my first fishing outing of the season, I found myself telling a companion that I'd like to fish more this year than I've managed for the past summer or two. She set an even loftier goal - to lose fewer flies. Neither of us set the bar at actually catching fish.

I lost my first fly of the season before I set foot on the riverbank after getting caught up in the trees and losing the one I still had rigged up from last season, when I paid the Roaring Fork one final visit last fall. As I recall, I caught no fish that day. I returned to the scene of the crime this week to repeat the performance.

It's a nice stretch of water, far enough from the road to let me pretend I'm not a stone's throw from suburbia, made accessible to the public only after a team of experts confirmed there was nothing in the way of trout there to impede the water's flow.

Blue wing olives — or maybe midges — danced on the surface with impunity, the way insects do when there's no danger of trout in the vicinity. I tied on an artificial variation of the insect, letting my fly join the real thing in not getting eaten.

I tried a few nymphs, using a dropper - that's one fly tied a length behind a lead fly - theoretically doubling my chances of attracting a fish. In reality, I doubled my chances of losing two flies instead of just one, but just to make sure I'd snag something on the river bottom, I added some extra weight to the line, a common practice when fishing below the surface.

I debated but ultimately skipped trying a San Juan worm - essentially about an inch of material that resembles a worm, with a fish hook sticking out of its midsection. Since a worm isn't a fly, this sounds like cheating, but it's not, presuming the worm is employed under the proper circumstances - mainly, when no one else is watching.

With little action to speak of, unless you count the impromptu game of back-wrenching Twister I played on the moss-slickened rocks, I embraced on the solitude of the moment, the chirping birds and the breeze caressing my face. A lot of anglers don't care for wind, but I welcomed the stiff breeze that suddenly materialized, if only to break up the monotony of tangle-free back casts.

At one point, I simply settled into the brittle grass on the bank and examined the earthy loam at my feet, mostly because I'd just dumped about a dozen microscopic flies there from one of those flimsy plastic containers that I'd stuffed into a pocket instead of transferring them to a flybox.

Yes, the season is off to an auspicious start. I can hardly wait to try again.

<i>Next week, Janet stuffs the winter's blubber into biking shorts. Send your advice to janet@aspentimes.com.</i>