Glasgow Daily Times
My first introduction to fly fishing (if you could truly characterize it as “fly fishing”) was in the late 1950s growing up in my hometown of Lubbock, Texas. By chance I stumbled up on an interesting package at the local Army Surplus store that read “Survival Kit.”
It only cost .75 cents so I plunked down a dollar and purchased it. When I got home and opened it up, my “Survival Kit” contained a half-dozen flies and a few yards of line with instructions as to how to fish with them. I quickly scurried off to Yellowhouse Creek near my house, cut a long slender limb from a tree, tied on a few feet of line and tipped it with one of the flies.
I dropped the fly in the water around the base of a submerged tree along the shore and instantly had a hefty bluegill fighting on the business end of my line. I was as hooked as that bluegill on the appeal of “fly fishing.”
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