In which your humble correspondent is induced to ponder the art and science of fly fishing

Casting an Enrico Puglisi streamer on a 7-weight outfit while standing in frigid knee-deep water for hours and hours at some point becomes something like work.

And the more tired I become, the more mistakes I make.

I lose control of my fly line ... a passable loop becomes a tangle, meets itself in mid-air, falls in ruins to the surface of the water .... or, the heavy fly smacks me between the shoulder blades, awakens me to the fact that I need to slow down, take a breather, relax a little.

I've been fishing since I was ... well, at least since I was 3, maybe earlier. I learned to cast on an open-faced reel and have a pretty well-educated thumb.

I learned a lot over the years about lure selection and presentation and the life histories of the species I pursued and when and where to find fish ....

But I was reluctant to even try fly fishing. My Uncle Elmer once told me that fly fishing wasn't about catching fish, it was about "communing with the water column."

It didn't seem terribly efficient to me and -- to be honest -- I was put-off by what I perceived as the elitism of that particular subculture of angling.

It can be expensive, to begin with. The gear is pretty specialized and a lot of the stories I'd read about folks pursuing fish with the long rod involved exotic destinations or "private" waters.

Not for me, I thought.

Really, though, I think I stayed away for so long mostly because I knew I'd like it. Kind of how I've deliberately avoided going to Florida to fish, afraid I'd never come back or that somehow it would lead to long-term infidelity to my own, dear Texas coast.

Rick Roberts of the Snook Foundation said: "Oh, c'mon Aaron, it's not that good." Then, rather gleefully, I thought: "It's better!"

He could have been talking about fly fishing.

Last January, at the ripe old age of 36, I had my first casting lesson. At an angler education area chief's convocation at Oak Island Lodge, TPWD's education chief, Steve Hall, offered fly fishing instruction.

As it turned out, I was the only student for the first lesson and I got about an hour-and-a-half of high-quality, one-on-one help.

I was hooked. A couple of times. Once in the back of the head, once on the sleeve of my fishing shirt .... Seriously, I couldn't put the fly rod down.

That was on a Saturday. Sunday afternoon I stopped on the way back to Austin, with one of the "school" rods, and caught my first sunfish on a popper.

Monday I went to Cabela's and bought a 6-weight outfit. Tuesday after work I caught a pretty nice largemouth bass.

Thursday and Friday were carp days, throwing high-floating steelhead flies (I thought they looked sufficiently like pieces of french fry or biscuit) to trophy-size common carp.

One I caught that week bottomed-out my 25-lb scale and, based on measurements, would have topped the current state fly fishing record for the species.

It went into the record books as a 25-lb. water body record on the fly.

By the end of the day Friday I had broken my 6-weight on a huge fish, replaced it, and decided I was -- if not ready, at least anxious -- for saltwater.

Sunday I landed my first speckled trout on a "Bunny Gotcha" pattern.

Steve called it moving at warp speed. Other people called it obsession.

I felt frustration ... frustration that my loops weren't tighter, that my casts weren't longer, that I was missing strikes.

I still feel that frustration, and, honestly, I could use some more expert instruction.

But I love the long rod and usually at least once an outing, I can find my rhythm and I'm hauling and the line is shooting straight and true and suddenly I can feel the thinner running line between the fingers of my left hand and I can actually drop the fly just there, right where I want it.

In those moments, I find the sport simply sublime.

I've learned, too, that fly fishing has advantages over conventional tackle. A bit of feather and fur on a hook doesn't spook a fish like a half-ounce topwater plug crashing down onto the water.

A quick roll-cast can reposition a fly in front of a moving fish in about the time it takes to even think about retrieving a conventional lure and casting again.

Since I started my fly fishing odyssey, I've met a growing number of other, pretty regular guys who have recognized the same advantages of the long rod ... average folks who aren't necessarily spending weekends matching the hatch on the Bighorn River or stalking bonefish in the Seychelles.

Guys who, like me, think an 8-weight and a spoon fly make a nice addition to their redfish arsenals, or get a jolt out of seeing a lunker largemouth crash a popping bug.

A little company up in Dallas, of all places, has done a lot to break down fly fishing's elitist image. Temple Fork Outfitters began offering their own rods and reels a few years back with the stated goal of setting new standards for value and performance.

When Lefty Kreh signed-on with TFO back in February 2003, here's what the company said:

"Those of us fortunate enough to call Lefty Kreh a friend know that flyfishing is not an elitist sport. Affordability has long been a barrier for those wanting to get started ... Together we will address the needs of the industry and we make the following pledge: 'Our goal is to increase participation in and awareness of flyfishing by offering the best possible combination of price and performance in rods.'”

And that's important, because as much as cost can be a barrier into getting into the sport, so can trying to learn how to cast with a rod that won't load right.

The simplicity of the equipment is deceptive. It's one of the marvels of fly fishing that the science, the technology, is hidden in the modulus of the graphite of your rod, the care with which it was wrapped ... or in the chemical composition of your fly line, or the smoothness of a disc drag.

What I've figured out in the last year is that fly fishing is in the end a very pure distillation of what I've always loved about fishing -- just being "out there," trying to out-think an animal with a brain the size of a nut while soaking up the natural beauty of live water and limestone, of wind and wave and spartina marsh.

I reject the notion that -- within accepted ethical and legal limits -- there is a "right way" and a "wrong way" to fish. Or even a "better" way. I know people who get a tremendous amount of enjoyment out of sitting on the bank of a stream or leaning on the railing of a pier and fishing, with bait, on the bottom.

So long as they're fishing responsibly, taking only what they will use and no more, obeying local conservation laws, I say more power to 'em. It makes me happy to see anyone enjoy fishing, no matter how they choose to pursue the sport.

As for me, I don't think I'll ever give up my topwater plugs and soft plastics, not completely.

But fly fishing is a lot like paddling. It's about slowing down, finding a rhythm and living in the moment.

Uncle Elmer was right, after all: fly fishing is about communing with the water column. Turns out that's all I ever really wanted to do anyway.