“…all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.” -Norman Maclean, “A River Runs Through It”

I am now a fly fisherman. This realization surfaced, like a trout rising to the fly, during a recent outing on Tickanetley Creek in the mountains of North Georgia and came to me fully while singing a hymn in church this past Sunday morning.

As I sang the words from “Holy, Holy, Holy,” it hit me. Those words, “All thy works shall praise thy Name, in earth, and sky and sea,” transported me back to the moments after catching my first trout, releasing the beautiful fish and then standing in the creek in awe surrounded by the sounds of the water and the wind and the birds.

That first trout, a rainbow, had come at the end of a day of fishing the Tickanetley. We had spent the morning completing the classroom portion of our daylong “On The Water School” with our guide, Matt Morrison, from Cohutta Fishing Company. Our training started with a basic introduction to the fly rod, reel, line and leader as well as the most common flies that we would be using.

Along with my brother-in-law Michael Van Veckhoven, I learned about dry flies, wet flies, streamers, nymphs and poppers as well as the various knots needed to attach tippet to leader and fly to tippet. I tried to soak it all in and stay focused, but my mind kept drifting to visions of the creek and what would, hopefully, be my first trout.

After finishing our indoor classroom instruction, we followed Matt to an open field next to the creek for a few casting lessons. He instructed us on the basics of the back cast, roll cast, tension cast, overhead cast and explained false casting, hauling and mending as well as other casting and fishing techniques we would use over the next two days.

We started the day fishing with what Matt called a “dry-dropper rig” — basically a dry fly with a nymph tied to it. In this setup, the dry fly functions both as a lure and, in my country boy estimation, a cork (indicating a subsurface strike if it dips underwater). Evidently, the trout were looking for something different that day, and Matt soon had both of us switch to a streamer fly.

According to Matt, by twitching the rod tip and hauling in the fly line, the streamer would imitate a wounded baitfish and was, typically, the best option for catching big fish. As I watched, he flicked the lure effortlessly into the hole he wanted me to fish and, as he demonstrated the technique I was to use, I saw the first trout of the day flash in the sunlight as it nailed the streamer.

After he landed the fish, he returned the rod to me, and I eagerly began casting and retrieving in hopes of landing my first trout. I would not describe my initial attempts as effortless; however, with each cast and retrieve, I became more confident, and soon I seemed to slip into a decent rhythm. “Perhaps I could be a fly fisherman,” I thought to myself as I fished through each run, “if only I could catch a fish.”

From around the bend, I heard the sounds of celebration from Michael and Matt. Michael had hooked and landed his first fish of the day, a gorgeous rainbow, and judging from the look on his face, I knew he, too, was hooked.

Shortly thereafter, Matt rounded the bend, and we made our way to fish the last run of the day. As we walked, he told me that the rocks beneath the bridge where I was to fish typically held several trophy-class rainbows. He then explained that the challenge would be placing the streamer into the faster water along the far side of the creek and then mending the line for an appropriate drift just above the rocks.

My third cast and drift hit the mark, and as I mended the line I watched the streamer glide into the shadows below the bridge until Matt, who stood above me on the creek bank, told me to start hauling the line. The streamer jumped and fell as I twitched the rod, and in an instant I struck when I saw a flash in the sun-dappled water as a trout smashed the lure.

My rod bowed and line begin to peel off the reel as the trophy rainbow made a run upstream. I will never forget the moment of that flash or the epic battle that ensued, nor will I forget the sight of that first trout in the net and then in my hands.

Time seemed to stand still in that moment, and amidst the sound of the water and the wind and the birds, it seemed as if all of creation was singing to the Creator. It was indeed a holy moment, a sweet symphony, and I was now, forever, a fly fisherman. Until next time, I look forward to seeing you out there, with fly rod in hand, in our great outdoors.

Email outdoors columnist Brad Dye at braddye@comcast.net.