I’m not talking about sitting in a lawn chair with a twelve pack of Old Milwaukee getting shit faced while staring at your bobber loaded with Powerbait. This isn’t THAT kind of fishing. (Please, please, please follow this link.) You can deer hunt from an air-conditioned blind, stocked with a mini-bar, as the unsuspecting deer eat from a well-timed feeder less than twenty yards away. Technically, it’s not illegal, and there is an overpopulation problem, but I’m not talking about that kind of hunt. You can feed birds to lure them to your lens, but I’m not talking about that kind of photography. We have choices in life. You can be “that” guy, or you can take a pass and accept the challenge. My guess is, most of you are not “that” guy or gal, but if you are that beer-hammering Powerbait man, well, I want to party with you, hombre.
My parents used to hunt deer and antelope in Wyoming in the 1960s and 1970s.
This meant sleeping on the ground in some remote canyon, getting up at 4 AM, with binoculars and a rifle by your side, and beginning to walk and glass, walk and glass-studying game trails and the wind to give yourself the best shot at success. No pun intended. This was low percentage hunting, but it was hunting. The animals were in their territory, and the bungling humans were doing what they could to ambush. The rifle made things unequal, but at least they had to work for it. And nothing went to waste.
This past Saturday, I went fishing. It had been over a year since I’d fished, which doesn’t sit well with me because I love to wet a line and it’s been a part of my life since third grade, when my mother taught me how to hunt those Brookies and Rainbows on beaver ponds high up in the Wyoming wilderness. There is nothing more beautiful than the designs and patterns on the sides of trout. Nothing. Turn that fish over in the light and see the world expand before you. Just ask the bears.
In tribute to my mother, I got up early, made coffee, and went outside. (I do this every day anyway.) Fishing isn’t just about the fish. Fishing is about the experience. The time, the place, the weather, and the environment. It’s about light and temperature, and the skill required to do it well. Yes, I said skill for those of you non-fishing types who scoff and dismiss. Depending on how you fish, there is WAY more to it.
On this particular day, my wife came along. A suburban girl from south of Boston, who knows next to nothing about fishing. She loves to eat fish, so she is always talking trash and putting pressure on me. She does NOT like catch-and-release. Normally, on a day like this, she is entirely unprepared. Wrong shoes, clothes, hat, gloves, and is so excited by the adventure she bounces around like a superball. She wants to stop and photograph everything, so we do. Later, at the bar where the band is playing, a stranger asks, “Has she always been this way?” (Energetic) I respond, “Always.” (This last sentence is foreshadowing, keep reading.)
I am also unprepared. I’m clumsy. My knot-tying is sloppy, and I have to stop and think about what knot I’m trying to tie. I forgot my waders. I have trouble reading the water. Yes, reading the water is a key element. Once I remembered the knot, I chose the wrong fly. My mind sees a bass fly, and my brain says, “Ya, that’s the one.” And then I remember I’m fishing for trout. I know that a dry fly isn’t the best choice, but that’s what I choose anyway.
We move from mud to snow to water to rock. I stumble and nearly fall in. Mom would have laughed and said, “Only a matter of time, you should quit now and let me show you how to fish.” A quick rise in temperature and the trees begin to dump their snow. Wham, wham, wham, massive piles of snow land on the river surface. It sounds like rocks hitting the water. I pull up both hoods as snow slams into my head and upper body. I try to protect the Leica. My fly snags on a tree branch, then on some reeds near the water’s edge. Then it happens again and again. The river water is cold, and soon my feet are frozen. There is no place I’d rather be. Zero fish, zero strikes. In untangling my line, the fly digs into my finger, which is so cold I can’t feel it.
The wind picks up, and my fly line carries with each cast. I roll cast to try and simplify things. Wham, a strike, but just a false flag, a lookie-loo, a spunky little, “Ya, I know what you are doing, and I’m not buying it.” Trout are fickle, smart, delicate, and temperamental. What’s the flow rate? Temperature? Time of year? What’s the weather? Is post-storm a good time or a bad time? What’s tomorrow’s weather? Is there a front coming?
The river is so clear and so beautiful. I am transfixed. I stop and look around. My wife says her feet are cold, and there is a band we need to get back for. Near the car are two “real” fishermen. Two young guys from a town south of Santa Fe. I watch as they prepare for battle. The correct reels, rods, lines, and flies. Tied with expertise, as they talk to us. We talk hunting, and I ask if I can photograph an elk hunt. They say “Yes.” We talk time of year and locations. They asked if I’ve ever fished “The Juan.” (San Juan River, a legendary spot in Northern New Mexico.) When I say, “No,” they both howl and say, “Oh, you gotta come with us and fish The Juan.” “We camp and fish for days.”
Technically, nothing has gone right on my little excursion. Two hours of driving, at least half of which in 4-wheel drive through snow and ice, frozen digits, and no fish, but I could not be happier. This is why we fish. To be out there, in the elements, sun beams in the eyes and flakes backlit in the morning light. The sound of the river. The temporary disconnect from the screen. I make a pact with myself. More of this, please. More time on the water. More time in the canoe. More time over a campfire. More time as part of the world around me.
Comments 16
Evocative writing and beautiful photographs Dan. Not to mention the comments about your wife (whose identity I will safely guard) made me laugh out load.
Author
Yes, you know her well. You should have seen her dancing at the Black History celebration. A woman in her element.
Thanks for triggering the memories I have of waking up early with my dad to fish for “brookies” in the rivers a streams of northern New Hampshire in August.
I was the only one of five kids willing to go. He had his 3oz Orvis rod, and me with one of my mom’s decent bamboo rods. Not as light as 3oz, but still good.
Worshipping time with my dad was instinctual. I used to sneak in the shower with him nearly every morning before he went to work. Total silence, until one day he told me to scram. Probably hung over or needed alone time.
He taught me how to rock hop down a stream and carefully drop in a dry fly in a downstream pool, so as not to spook the “brookies”. They are spectacularly colorful. I learned that a native trout has orange flesh because they grew up eating crawfish. The occasional rainbow was clearly stocked by NH Fish and Game.
I still have his Orvis vest and 3oz rod, even though it snapped while trying to free a fly from a branch in the Sierra Nevada. I was heartbroken.
Author
Tommy, I’ve heard versions of this story my entire life. My father, also known as Big Outdoor John, had me fully versed in the hunt/fish world from a very young age. I think I got my first shotgun in third or fourth grade. But mom was the keeper of the fly fishing tools. She was WAY better than him, and she had patience. He had zero patience, and a fiery temper. He’d make a few casts and get frustrated or distracted. She would work the water for as long as it took.
Another note, you should write to Orvis. My mom snapped the tip on a fifty-year-old rod and they replaced it!
That’s a priceless picture of your mom.
Author
That was such a fun day, and I have a hilarious story from that day, too.
This was a good one. Thanks Dan. I tend to compress all of my “excuses” to get out there into the realm of photography but one can certainly apply all of the foibles with any pursuit; Have bike forget riding shoes. grab b&w contrast filters but grab the body that’s loaded with color film. The list is endless and an endless source of anecdotes that bind us all together. Add some varying weather and the potential for “fun” to happen is exponential.
I didn’t remember you guys had anything 4×4 still is the Tacoma still alive?
I will at least try fly fishing some time. I will.
That link; Bill Murray was talking about those dudes in “Stripes.”
Author
She hit a deer and totaled the old RAV. So, we bought a new/used RAV. It’s lovely.
Wow! I will write Orvis! It must be 60 years old. I think he bought when he won a fly fishing trip to Seal River in Canada. He took mom, she loved to fly fish too. He was catching 20” brookies and fighting each one for what seemed like hours. He had to rest his wrist after a couple of fish.
He couldn’t understand why other guys on the trip were hauling them in with spinning rods.
They came back with a such a huge haul he had to buy a hickory smoker!
Author
My mom called them and they replaced her old rod. Didn’t have same model but close. You just never know. We used to smoke dove and quail. Lovely birds.
What’s been Lost, can always be found again, and “The Wind Cries, Mary”
Author
I’m holding up a lighter.
Danielsan…Mate! I wanted to talk fly fishing…But I clicked on the “link.” OMG, TOO FUNNY (I think he might have drowned if the one guy hadn’t pulled on him until he got a hand-hold). I also cracked up when the other “billy-bob’s” all sat there (not getting up to help) laughing their asses off. My guess. He won the trophy.
Author
What’s the old Jeff Foxworthy line, “You know you are a redneck when you are too drunk to fish.”
Denny? That is surely a young Robert Redford.
Author
Ha, that’s what my mom called him!