<ost anglers understand the problem of attempting to rationalize our peaceful passion to nonanglers, especially those who question whether it is cruel to fish. We are put on the spot to defend or to explain what we do, and in my experience, I sometimes end up feeling that it is I, not the fish, who is being “caught.” Why does this nonangler scrutiny bother us?
One summer, I invited my husband along on a two-day trip to a beautiful private fishing location. We had the entire property to ourselves, and I was thrilled at the promise of having what I loved most nearby: beautiful surroundings, big trout, total privacy, and male companionship. Suffice it to say, Tom’s not an angler, but he was happy enough reading, napping, and my favorite, bringing trays of snacks and glasses of wine down to a lovely little table by the lake. My personal fishing assistant! I took several breaks from fishing to eat, drink, and play cribbage, spreading my attention out quite nicely, I thought.
On one of his visits, my husband came down to the lake just as I was standing on the bank, reeling in a large fish, right in front of our little table. “Aha,” I thought. “Perfect! Now he will see just how talented I am and just how incredible these fish are!” After a respectable fight, I finally netted a big rainbow and, giddy at my success, turned around to show it to Tom. He frowned, put his hands on his hips, and said, “That looks like it really some of the browns who eat crawdads and have sweet, pink meat. (Sorry, next time, I’ll do a core sample before I whack it over the head!)
I won’t deny that I’m inflicting pain and terror on fish when I catch them, whether they are released or killed for food. I am mindful of it and grateful to them in a very personal way that I have trouble explaining to those who do not understand.
If this lack of understanding bothers us, perhaps it’s because from people who purport to care for us, we expect at least a pretense of insight into how much fly fishing means to us, how it fills our dreams, sustains us, makes our blood quicken, our spirits soar, and puts us at the very heart of nature.
I’ve considered that it’s just plain bad luck to not have a partner who shares even an inkling of my fishing passion. Though it sure would be nice, it’s obviously not fair (or realistic) to expect our partners to be everything we desire. I’d like to have a fishing friend, but I also appreciate that in hurts the fish.”
How did I end up with this person? The one who eagerly awaits as I pull up to the house after fishing a nearby lake to see if I’ve brought home dinner, then comments if the trout doesn’t taste as good as fishing solo, there’s no compromising to do, no bad tempers to contend with (other than my own), and no one to witness my blunders. And I have been with angling men in the past with whom I enjoyed fishing, but our nonfishing experience didn’t sustain us. I must concede that there are more important elements than fishing to a mutually satisfying relationship.
This is why I’m quite content with whom I consider to be the perfect fishing companion. My faithful four-legged boy, Toni, quivers at the sight of each trout I bring to my net, trots alongside me faithfully wherever I choose to go, doesn’t argue, complain, or gloat, always knows the way back to the car, and doesn’t seem to worry about how the fish feel.
