Carp on the Fly

There’s something about an overcast sky and the steady rhythm of light rain that makes a river feel more alive. This week, I packed up my gear and headed out to the high banks of the Grand River in Cambridge for a fly fishing session targeting carp—a species that never makes things easy, but always makes them worth it.

The journey began with a literal test of balance and will. Due to recent rainfall, the river was running higher than usual. Crossing it in waders wasn’t the most comfortable choice; the water reached my waist and the current pushed with purpose. But eventually, I made it to the far bank—soaked, chilled, and exactly where I wanted to be.

Working my way downstream along the high bank, I started finding carp tucked into nearly every eddy. The rain had softened their caution. Within minutes, I hooked into my first fish—a powerful carp that didn’t hesitate to show me who was boss. The fight stretched on for ten long minutes. I followed it downriver, dancing over slippery rocks and deeper channels, rod bent deep. But in the end, the line tangled around a hidden rock, snapped, and I was left standing in the current with nothing but an empty leader and a heavy heart.

Disappointed, sure. But not discouraged.

I kept moving, scanning every swirl and soft pocket for signs of life. And they were there—more carp feeding in the quiet eddies, cruising just below the surface. At the tail end of the run, I spotted one in a slow, glassy back eddy. I dropped an armoured worm fly just ahead of it. The take was instant and aggressive. It surged forward, slurping it up without hesitation. That moment—when everything comes together—reminds me why I keep coming back.

Carp on the fly isn’t for the impatient. It’s wet boots, broken tippets, and lessons in humility. But it’s also pure joy when it all clicks.

Until next time, tight lines.