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Seasonable Angler: Finding Fly Fishing in War-Torn Iraq

Finding peace on a phantom river: A Marine chaplain's refuge from war.

Seasonable Angler: Finding Fly Fishing in War-Torn Iraq
(Al Hassal artwork)

This article was originally published in the December 2008 issue of Fly Fisherman. 


As I write this, I am sitting in a war-torn four-story building, trying my best to stay warm. I am in downtown Ramadi, Iraq, with the 1st Battalion 6th Marines.

I have been in Iraq for four months and will be here for five more. My life here is much different than the one back home. There is little running water; I eat a lukewarm meal in the evening; and the ones I love are far, far away.

The Marines here endure radically awful living conditions, and daily threats to their health and safety. As a chaplain, I consider it an honor to serve these young courageous Marines. However, at times, I deeply long for the peace and safety of home.

While God gives me the strength to be here, sometimes I have to leave. So, with a musical tribute to Greg Brown playing through my laptop speakers and a warm cup of coffee, I set the stage for one of my many daydreaming fishing trips that take me away from this dark place.

In my favorite dream, I head to an area in southwest Wisconsin where there is a seldom-fished little trout stream. I remember finding it on a map, and thinking, “This could be good.”

It is an elegant spring day, about 48 degrees F. I have spent the night at a wonderful little campground where many of my fly-fishing friends spend their weekends.

The dew on the grass makes my feet cold, but I know they will soon be in warm socks inside my waders, and the temperature will rise about 10 degrees by late morning.

As I leave the campground, my old car makes its way down a road that follows the contours of this hilly section of Wisconsin. It is a bit of a drive, but I swear my car knows every turn and bump so well it could get there without me.

I pull in and park on some cut grass. The noise of the nearby stream brings my heart rate up a little, and I know it is going to be a great day.

I eagerly make my way to the river and I quickly tie on a fly and cast—excited to get the first fish out of the way. After a couple of 7-inch browns, I settle into a relaxing rhythm of casting and catching trout, and allow my mind to wander to this evening’s campfire where I will sit contentedly with my friends and compare fishing notes.

After a time, the river calls me from upstream with promises of more and bigger fish, and I cannot resist. The upstream pull of the river is far stronger than the downhill push of the current.

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I approach a long, deep stretch and dig deep into my psyche for a calm patience that will allow me to be productive. “Go for the bottom, that’s where the fish are,” I tell myself.

Going through my checklist, I straighten my tapered leader and add tippet to about 11 feet, tie on a Beadhead Pheasant-tail Nymph, crimp a split-shot about 10 inches up from the fly, and use a slipknot to attach a yarn strike indicator to the butt of the leader.

An impressionistic painting of a brown trout in a landing net.
(Al Hassal artwork)

I am one of those guys who disliked strike indicators—until the day I started catching fish with them. Now, as a result of my many years of fishing small water like this, I know how soft the strikes can be.

As I watch, my little indicator twitches just a bit, I salute the fish’s enthusiasm with my rod, and the game is on. Even though I have enjoyed this moment a million times, it still makes me feel like a teenager on a first date, and I somehow convinced the girl to give me a kiss.

I work my way up this deep, steady run, and several fish boost my faith in my fly, and my ability to roll it along the bottom. I need the extra confidence because my favorite pool is right around the corner.

Like many choice pools, this one has fast water and a turn, creating a deep pool of nearly still water along the far bend. There is a large tree on the bank near where the creek finishes its turn. Under the tree is the fish that has escaped me twice before. I am certain he will strike again.

I take inventory once more and make sure everything is in place. I use the same leader and tippet combination but tie on my Macaroni and Cheese Dish—a fly I named in honor of Matthau and Lemmon—get rid of the split-shot, and hope for the best. Since this may be my last trip here for a long time, I run through my checklist again.

My fly lands a few yards north of the tree trunk and quickly rides down to the deep water where I hope my white whale waits for his midday snack. I know my fly has reached its destination when the strike indicator slows to match the quieter water near the bank. I watch closely, hoping for a slight twitch, and then strike instinctively— maybe even before the fish telegraphs its take.

The tension on the line has me running another checklist in my mind: rod tip up, keep it tight but not too tight. . . fish off. It didn’t last long, but for a while it seemed things were going my way.

There’s little chance the trout will strike again, so I quickly move upriver to a pool I hope will restore some of my self-esteem.

The sun is starting its downward journey and the air is beginning to cool. The decreasing light stirs the insects to activity, and swallows take to the air to find them. The trout also notice the change, and begin following the bottom-dwelling insects toward the surface.

I arrive at a flatwater pool about the size of a baseball diamond and see the head-and-tail rises that tell me today will end on a good note. With a simple size 16 tan Elk-hair Caddis, I bring enough fish to hand to remind me I am superior to these wonderful pea-brained creations.

A bit tired and with an aching back, I stroll to my car, enjoying the evening air. I have a moment of sadness knowing it will be a while before I come back to this stream that has given me so much.

I finish my day around the fire with a cold Boston beer and a free-range steak. I share the fire with a friend and local fishing legend, a retired schoolteacher who now runs a guide service out of his trailer. Before the fire dies, I receive orders to move, so I must quit dreaming for now.

Thanks for sharing my trip. Soon I will climb into an armored Hummer, and convoy to another place in the city where young Marines are eager to see their chaplain. I tell them that people at home—friends, family, complete strangers—honor and miss them, and God loves them in this life and the next.


Chaplain Jamie Stall-Ryan served with the 1st Battalion 6th Marines in Ramadi, Iraq.




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