River Lessons

It’s January. 

This morning I walked up to the window, pressed my forehead against the glass and just let my eyes wander over the scene of miniature icebergs and black-cold flowing water between them. How can anything, cold blooded or warm, survive in such serene and brutal beauty as this? 

I was going to dive right into something rote and predictable about being a flyfisherman in winter who itches for spring warmth and hungry trout. But, as I’ve described to a few of you before, my goal is to enter the class of poet-fisherman rather than just sportsman. Although I must stay, there is nothing poetic about my very loud and pitchy vocal yelps upon hooking into one of the few fish I caught this year. Even if no one’s around, I’ll still get giddy. Like a child, all excitement, no inhibitions. More sporty than poetry.

I need the cold. The poet side of this art-sport needs to feel the freedom to rest from actually fishing and, instead, to return to the rivers in which I’ve stood from last year and beyond. I remember the rain, the sun, the cold water, the noxiously warm pools, the sea-river that yielded my only striper of the season, that deeply stuck hook in my thumb that thankfully had no barb, taking the kids, being alone, being with friends. All of it comes flooding back between those icy snow peaks in the dark river blackness. Not much moving down there, and the water is clear to the bottom where lichen and moss hide the nymphs that will be fattening up those pesky fishes come spring. 

This last year was the easiest “bad” year of fishing I’ve had. Oh I got out, got down to the water, got skunked, or only caught Chubs when fishing for Salmon. I missed so many fish, spent more time fussing with flies and tippet and gear than I did taking deep breaths and feeling the water. But then, sometimes, I put everything down and just enjoyed being alive, a part of the glorious wonder of some obscure bend in the river. I may not have hit my internal “quota” to define it as a successful year of fishing, but I sure did enjoy catching the few slick-sided brookies, browns and salmons that did lend me their fight and energy. Rare things are more beautiful. And the chase is that much more poignant. 

I enjoyed the men and boys with whom I travelled. I rarely fished alone this year, and took as much pride and excitement in watching them learn the art, or explore new water. I watched their minds working, eyes working, bodies settling into the gentle rhythms of the rivers. A couple of them are avid cigarette smokers, and I marvelled at their frequent breaks to take deep draws on the banks. They would talk, and watch, and let the water calm down. Inevitably they would spot a rise or two and when they re-entered, knew just where to cast. I’ve never considered smoking, but they made it look beautiful. Another friend on another trip is a far better fisherman than me. So little gear, absolute confidence in his tiny flybox, always smiling, so glad to be out in all kinds of weather. Just glad to be out. His smile and sumptuous enjoyment of the camp food was something I admire, something that spoke to me. A mid-summer trip put me in the truck with a cousin-by-marriage. He and I had not spent much time together, and he had never flyfished before, but he took to it quickly and within 20 minutes he had the cast down, within an hour he landed a small brookie in fast water on a dry fly. His grinning white teeth in the darkness of a dusky river will be one of my favored mental trophies. 

I still snag my line, cause tangles, slip on slick rocks, forget to pack my hat, forget to pee before I’m in the middle of a big pond. I am a cacophony of rookie mistakes, and on a few days, I get mad at myself for them. This year, I just laughed, remembering those cigarettes and smiles. Someone asked me last week what fly fishing is. My response was, “It’s the most ridiculous way to never catch anything, but it’s a beautiful way to spend time on a river.” My very own whiskey-fueled poetry.

In the spirit of that poetry, let’s go straight to using a new acronym. The Return on Invested Time, Energy and Dollars (ROITED) of fly fishing makes absolutely no human sense. It’s time consuming, expensive, and completely inefficient. Yet during Covid the art-sport exploded. And to me, the lesson is about as clear as this winter water I’m looking into.

The Soul does not value what is obvious.

My creel would have been a disappointment to anyone this year. I asked everyone I knew how to make it out of my “slump”, but when I’m here, mid-winter, reflecting, it was absolutely one of the most nourishing and fulfilling years I’ve had. I healed from loss. I enjoyed what is important. I was overjoyed, happy, excited and giddy, just for different reasons than usual. This year, I enjoyed the poetry of water, the joy of people, the swift and silent weather changes, the scenes, the moments. And I’m enjoying it still on this January day, and here I’ll stop. There isn’t more to say. It was the best, “worst” year of fishing I’ve had. I hope for more of them.