The ugly tan fly vest was there when I made my first tentative (and mostly futile) casts.

It was there when I caught my first fish on a fly … and much later, when I caught my first on a fly that I’d tied myself.

I was wearing that droopy mesh-and-nylon vest when my semi-frozen rod snapped on a 24-degree opening day. And the vest got drenched when I slipped on a rock and performed some impressive mid-river acrobatics in the East Outlet one hot July afternoon.

As long as I’ve been a fly-fisherman – which, as such things go, isn’t too long at all – that vest has been with me. It held all the things I thought I’d need … but never did. And it held all the things I never thought I’d need … and wound up needing time and time again.

Ugly? Perhaps. But in a utilitarian, function-above-style kind of way. Zingers and forceps and floatant and nippers vied for space on the front. Each had its place. And in the heat of battle (or in the fading twilight of another glorious midsummer outing) I came to know exactly where to reach, which pocket to mine, to find just the tool (or fly) for the job.

Today is opening day of fishing season. You may have guessed that. Or you may be heading fishing yourself.

I’ll be out there today. But somehow, it just won’t be the same.

Years of use … abuse … weather and wind and errant hooks … along with dozens of drenching-and-drying sequences (most, for the record, due to my penchant for attracting freak rainstorms while fishing) have taken their toll, you see.

The vest that has served me so well … up until now … has been retired.

To most, that fact will not matter. To many, this discussion will seem absurd.

But if you’re one of us – if you’ve waded a wild river, determined to succeed (or fail) based purely on the magic you can coax out of a limber graphite rod and a vest-full of close-kept secrets – you may understand.

This vest held flies. It held leaders. It held strike indicators and bug dope.

But it held far more than that.

Somewhere in those deep Velcro pockets, are all of my fly-fishing memories.

Every time I’ve been fly fishing … the vest was there.

Not any more.

Late last season, I knew the vest’s time was running out. I knew I’d have to buy a newer model.

Frankly, I loved that idea … at the time.

After all, what would fly-fishing be without the endless supply of new-fangled, better-than-before devices (and vests) that keep hitting the market each year?

The vest’s old zippers were balky, the pockets worn, the D-rings threatening to let go.

It was time to trade up. And that’s exactly what I did. Eagerly.

I studied the new vests, and compared prices. I tried some on. I looked at features.

It didn’t take long to figure out that my new vest – a not-nearly-so-ugly model – can hold things the old one couldn’t. It will be more comfortable on opening day than the old one ever was.

Then a funny thing happened.

Opening Day, that far-off notion that keeps snowbound anglers dreaming … and slaving away at the tying vise … got closer.

It wasn’t a far-off notion any longer. It was coming. Quickly.

And I had to get ready.

The other night, when nobody else was home to interrupt my reverie, I pulled the old vest out of the garage, and retrieved the new one from my bedroom closet.

I placed them side-by-side and began transferring all of the well-placed fishing gear from the old … to the new.

With each pocket, the memories returned. Fly-shop stickers on the various products reminded me of those shops … the rivers and streams and lakes … the people I met … and meals I ate over campfires in remote places I hope to see again … soon.

The boxes of flies – each one opened and surveyed in turn – reminded me of the fish I caught … and the ones I didn’t.

With each pocket, the memories continued.

East Outlet. The Roach River. Sourdnahunk. Lac Barbel. The Hart Jaune. Shawmut. Solon. The Upsalquitch.

Brown trout. Rainbows. Brook trout. Salmon. Bass.

As each fly box, each tool, each zinger, each roll of leader material was given a new home, I felt worse and worse.

Everywhere I’d gone, the old vest had been. Every fish I’d caught .. the vest had helped. Every time I’d bled, the vest had been my towel. Every time I’d needed a fly … the vest held it.

Sentimental drivel, I tried to convince myself. Then I grabbed another box and thought back to another trip.

Campfire roaring … staring at the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen … the East Outlet babbling beside me. Looking into my future fiancee’s eyes and whispering three special words … for the first time.

The vest was there for that, too. Maybe draped over the back of my chair … or perhaps tossed in the bed of my truck. I wasn’t paying much attention to those matters at the time. But I know it was there … somewhere. And I know that night, that fire, that woman, that river, remains the best “fly-fishing” memory I have.

That old, ugly vest has been retired. Sentimentality can’t cure its ills. There was no getting around it

But I don’t think I’ll be tossing it in the trash any time soon.

The vest may not be able to carry all the fishing gear I think I need it to carry.

But it’s still holding all those memories … and there’s something to be said for that.

John Holyoke can be reached at jholyoke@bangordailynews.net or by calling 990-8214 or 1-800-310-8600.