Gary Meyer | Tuesday, 20 June 2017
Now days I never tie on a fly before I reach the water I intend to fish. Not unlike, I expect, a trout angler watching for a hatch, I don’t choose the fly until I see what is going on. I will admit that if clues are not apparent I do have my “go to” flies, and those will come out of the box, with confidence, if I do not suspect a better pattern.
Now having said that, have I ever fished a fly first simply because it was recently created at the vise and I wanted to see how it looked in the water or I thought it was the latest “answer”? Guilty!
In a similar but broader sense, have I traveled to a location to fish simply based on the fact that I felt I wanted to fish that way, no matter if it was not appropriate for the season or conditions? Unfortunately, true again.
In either of the cases above, were those poor decisions, those whims, something I regretted in retrospect, since they were essentially a waste of my precious spare time? Yes.
Ah, but were these missteps worthless? No. I recognized, eventually, what they were and therefor I learned something about myself. So they had some value even if they did not add fish to the creel.
I have concluded that my “ethos”, my primary motivation, is not to catch fish, or a lot of fish, or large fish - it is simply to fish. There was a time when catching was important, but somewhere along the line that changed and I began to see fish are the product, not the reason. Now, that is not to say that catching is immaterial. The real draw for me is the puzzle: reading the conditions, knowing the season, choosing the location, finding the fish, eventually getting them to eat, and if I get it all right, bringing a few to hand.
I have slowly come to the realization that my fishing trips are much like drug trips, only better and with fewer side effects. There comes a point, soon after I begin fishing, when the drug-like effects really kick in and my mind becomes so totally immersed in what I am doing that everything else fades away. I remain in that wonderful trance until I come down and realize the day, or trip, is over. I am usually amazed at how much time has passed.
Often, when someone asks how many fish I caught I really have to stop and try to recollect. I’m not sure if they think I’m being modest or making up fish tales, but the truth is, unless I caught very few, I really have a hard time recounting. Its not that I catch so many, it is more like I suffer from blackouts.
Some might think I have a problem? That is not how I see it at all.
If paralleling my outings to drug use is not politically correct then maybe suggesting they are similar to meditation or Thai Chi might be more palatable. I know that my canoe excursions are a very sensory experience. I am much more attuned to sounds. Unlike in the city where I try to tune out the ambient noise, when fishing I’m “all ears”. Much of my angling is sight fishing, but more often than not, it is the sounds, sometimes subtle, of moving fish that swings my eyes in their direction.
Although I have never tried Thai Chi I sense there is a parallel to the art of efficiently paddling a canoe. The motions look to have a similar cadence and flow. Much like the feedback from the fly rod when matching the stroke to the intention of the cast, the feel it takes to almost effortlessly propel a canoe, silently, is felt not only in the hands but throughout the entire body. Coordination of many parts is required and effort must be balanced against feel or it is wasted and noise is generated. I like it when the stroke is silent and neither the air is ripped by the rod nor the water by the paddle. Further, healing the canoe over on a rail minimizes the effort required but also adds that extra dimension of precarious balance, enhancing the need for feedback between the feel of the stroke, the positioning of the body, and the sense of balance located midway between the inner ears.
Scary at first, it eventually becomes unconscious, which is good as I need to be listening and watching intently for fish. It is no wonder all thoughts other than the task at hand fade away. I simply do not have the mental capacity for more.
The really funny thing is, when I’m home and sit at the computer, and write up the trip in my notes, I can recall quite a lot of details. It is almost like watching a movie for the second time and noticing things that were missed on the first viewing. And it is usually the things that did not work, or conditions that were not expected, that I remember. The fish caught, their size, number, or when and where they were caught is quite often vague or confused. That’s why I don’t think catching is all-important to me anymore. Fish were expected, but not necessary, and sometimes the lack of fish or their unwillingness is what makes a trip more interesting.
It is incomprehensible to me how other anglers, after catching tens or dozens of fish, can report the exact number of fish they caught. I would have to use a clicker, and even then I would probably forget to use it.