What is it about fly fishing that has inspired countless writers over the centuries to attempt to convey why fly fishing is so satisfying? For example, Henry David Thoreau rendered an oft-quoted statement about the mysteries of the sport when he wrote: “Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after.” And then there is the frequently recited “Testament of a Fisherman” that begins Robert Travers’ book Trout Magic. It reads:
I fish because I love to; because I love the environs where trout are found, which are invariably beautiful, and hate the environs where crowds of people are found, which are invariably ugly; because of all the television commercials, cocktail parties, and assorted social posturing I thus escape; because, in a world where most men seem to spend their lives doing things they hate, my fishing is at once an endless source of delight and an act of small rebellion; because trout do not lie or cheat and cannot be brought or bribed or impressed by power, but respond only to quietude and humility and endless patience; because I suspect that men are going along this way for the last time, and I for one don’t want to waste the trip; because mercifully there are no telephones on trout waters; because only in the woods can I find solitude without loneliness; because bourbon out of an old tin cup always tastes better out there; because maybe one day I will catch a mermaid; and finally, not because I regard fishing as being so terribly important but I suspect that so many of the other concerns of men are equally unimportant — and not nearly so much fun.
One reason for my renewed interest in why men and women fish is the superb articles recently published in this magazine, the piece by Bill Barich, “Why I Fly Fish” (May/June 2018), and that by Bud Bynack, “ ‘Splaining’ It, Yet Again” (November/December 2019).
In his article, Bill Barich presents, with his usual writing prowess, five reasons why he fly fishes. They are, in brief, the challenge, a therapy, spending time in beautiful places, connection with the natural world, and to get away from pervasive technology.
When I read Bill’s article, I felt I couldn’t agree more. I’ve long felt that fly fishing is one of the few experiences in my life when all other considerations disappear and my mind and spirit become totally immersed in the process of trying to fool a trout. Problems just dissipate, as though carried away by the current flowing at my legs.
One related element I would add to Bill’s reasons is that of exercise, now more important than ever at my advanced years. What better way to maintain physical fitness than to tread about along a stream or kick about in a float tube while waving a long stick for hours? It sure beats walking a treadmill.
Moving on to that superlative piece by Bud Bynack, he also looks at the totality of the experience and shows how it is the process of seeking to bring a fish to a fly that draws us to this sport and rewards our efforts. As he writes: “As you pursue it, sometimes fish will come to your fly, but what is happening is that the process itself is its own reward.” To be goal-oriented, that is to place the catching of fish as one’s objective, is to experience disappointment as well as satisfaction.
Bud’s central theme conforms squarely with my own field of education. In educational philosophy, there are two different views of learning, similar to what Bud presented for fly fishing. One is the search for an attainable truth, an immutable core of knowledge that exists somewhere out there. (Think of religious fundamentalists who believe there is a single truth and all other beliefs are heretical.) The learner’s goal is to uncover it, that is, to acquire knowledge. This goal-oriented approach to learning is similar to Bud’s reference to goal-oriented fly fishing, where the end product determines success.
The second approach argues, as Bud does for fly fishing, that learning is a process; that knowledge is not predetermined, but is found in the ongoing search for it, that is, the process. Meaning resides more in the pathways one takes (the time spent on a stream) than the final end point (fish caught).
A further comment here. The goals of most learning experiences are intangible and qualitative. This is not so with fly fishing, where there are tangible returns, although as Thoreau and company clearly suggest, it is the doing of fly fishing where the rewards mainly reside.
Well, even though I’m fully on board with what is summarized above, I find something missing. And I’m going to go out on a limb and advocate for that missing link, as raised by a question: Where are the fish in all of this? Dare I say that my main reason for going fly fishing is to hook one or more nice fish? That is, to pursue the tangible? Is this too crass or boorish a purpose to admit to?
Actually not, because when one reads treatises on fishing, whatever their form, it’s evident that pursuing and hooking fish drives the agenda, even when peripheral matters are being highlighted. So let’s celebrate this intention for what it is — the very essence of fly fishing. And I would add, hooking and playing a good trout is about as good as anything life has to offer.
One of our best writers, John Gierach, certainly suggested as much when he wrote, “So I hike and fish because it’s pretty country and the trout are out there, with the red slashes on their jaws and their fine, efficient coloring that changes from lake to lake. I look for two things, mostly: trout and solitude, in that order.” None of my fishing companions ever raved about a fishless outing. We might agree it was a great day to be out, the companionship was good, wonderful lunch, and so forth, but then we usually zero in on possible reasons for why we didn’t catch any fish and what it might take to be successful next time.
A case in point. I once told a fly fisher, a sportsman in every sense, by the way, about a serene mountain lake that holds wild browns as well as planted rainbows. We hiked the half mile in with our float tubes, and in the most exquisite of settings, under perfect skies, surrounded by alpine vistas, we kicked about for hours and came up empty. Not so much as a bump. His response summed it up: “Boy, did we get spanked today.” As it turns out, it was trout we were after, Thoreau notwithstanding.
So yes, I fish for the express purpose of hooking fish — one “good” trout (each fisher may have his or her own criterion for this measure) is usually enough to make the day — appreciating as well all of the other returns associated with this endeavor. This foremost objective, however, is deceptively multidimensional and subject to the values and attitudes that each fisher brings to the enterprise.
Here, for instance, is one (stark) example of what the objective of catching fish can look like. I know a fly fisher with whom I fished on a couple of occasions. In his life, he spent the majority of his waking hours fishing. His objective not only was catching fish, it seemed to be the only one. If he didn’t hook fish in double figures, his mood turned morose, sullen, agonizing over why he wasn’t hooking more. I doubt he ever looked about to see the surroundings.
In letters written to a common friend detailing his summer experiences in another state, each letter was devoted to how many fish he caught in given ranges. This is how he measured his summer experiences. (See the accompanying cartoon.) It should also be mentioned that this fly fisher practiced catch and release and was a true sportsman in all respects.
So for some anglers, it is how many fish brought to a fly that counts, literally. And if this is what motivates someone to put on waders and spend time on a stream, I say good for that person.
I’m sure the acclaimed writer Nick Lyons didn’t have this results-driven value in mind when he wrote of the “marvelous passion” that is part of fly fishing, which is “never a purely contemplative recreation.” But I believe he would agree that whatever passion one brings to fly fishing is better than its absence.
To be clear, I am not elevating this quantitative, goal-oriented approach to our sport here, although noble reasons nevertheless exist for such. Consider, for example, the California Heritage Trout Challenge, as well as similar programs in other states, that are based on catching (and photographing) native trout species in their historical drainages. I’d say this is a pretty noble undertaking.
While I fully embrace fly fishing first and foremost as an endeavor to hook fish, this has come to mean for me something far beyond a tangible achievement. To me, fly fishing is a quest to connect with a wild trout, a creature whose form and shape and beauty continue to ignite my senses with each one brought to the net. This joining with the wild is what actualizes the full experience, in my view.
One of the sport’s f inest writers, Roderick L. Haig-Brown, expressed what the simple act of hooking a trout can return to the angler. He wrote, “But the next cast did it perfectly — cast, rise, strike, all in a moment of time — and he was securely hooked. It was one of those perfectly satisfying things that happen in fly-fishing and stick in the memory forever; yet the fish was no three-pounder, simply a good little Wolf River cutthroat of a pound and a quarter.”
Here is another example of what this process is not, as I see it. I once reviewed something a colleague wrote in which he described fly fishing as “man vs. fish,” a matter of vanquishing your quarry. This struck me as too competitive, too harsh an interpretation. Rather, I have come to see my relationship with trout more as a joining, the trout being a contributor to my life, rather than an antagonist.
I fully experienced this sentiment a year ago. At the time, I remember being in a prolonged funk. Some health issues flared up in the family, investments were down, an appliance went on the blink, the political picture looked grim — the usual regimen of living. In such down times, I find it pays to return to the basics, to clear one’s head and focus on something fundamental and worthy, such as turning over a mulch pile, planting f lowers, or cutting firewood.
For a fly fisher, though, what is basic is hooking a trout. And that is where I turned for a morale boost.
What I sought was a hookup with a hefty Sacramento River rainbow trout, something that always raises my spirits. So I headed to the swift-flowing river below where my wife and I live on its banks. A few casts swinging a single nymph, and I got a vicious strike from the fish I sought. It felt heavy and strong. I was focused. And then just as quickly, it was off. As it turned out, this was my one chance that day at rejuvenation, and I missed it.
A few days later, I again went to the river, now even more desirous of bringing in a good rainbow. Multiple casts and then, there it was. This specimen tugged, thrashed, and leapt out of the water. It looked to be 17 to 18 inches from the brief look I got of it. I gave it line to run and carefully worked it back to where I stood. And then the line went slack. Stunned, I couldn’t believe I had lost this fish. And it was a loss, one that hurt.
By now, bringing in one signature rainbow trout took on extra meaning, extra importance. But the trout were not simply giving themselves up. If I had ever taken prior hookups for granted, when eager fish were easy to catch, I now knew that each healthy wild trout brought to the net is something to be cherished.
Another visit to the water: I repeatedly cast that nymph as far out in the current as I could, where it was taken down to where trout often feed. When my prized rainbow took the fly and finally came to me, I cradled it in my hands and felt fulfilled. Life was good.
At that moment, I recalled the opening scene in the film The Last of the Mohicans, when Hawkeye and Chingachgook were racing through the forest after their prey, a deer. When Hawkeye shot it and his Mohican companion went to finish it off, Chingachgook prayed over the animal and thanked it for giving up its life so that they could have food. With similar feelings, I thanked that rainbow trout for surrendering and for brightening up my life, as it surely did. In gratitude, I released it and watched it dart off, its contribution rendered.
It does not feel like a catch to me when I don’t land the trout. When that happens, a friend says, “Good — that means it unhooked itself and you don’t have to take the hook out.” No, I want this pairing to be consummated before it enters into memory.
No one ever stated this closing of the circle, or lack thereof, better than Seth Norman when he wrote:
I struck and the fish turned; I thought I’d never seen such a crimson color, sweeping through the green. I still see that vivid side these years later; still feel the triumph rushing through me even as the fish headed upstream until it reached the drowned branch and stopped. Bit of a fluke: the dropper fly had caught and pulled its partner free. I’ve got a good guess as to the size of the fish so released and I have several times lost larger. But this was one of those fish — maybe it’s the day, the place you are in your own passage — that left me feeling hollow. Made me step out of the stream and into a shadow, sit down.
Seth Norman has few peers for being able to express insights into fly fishing and the human condition, which he reveals as only he can in his meanderings across the waterscapes and encounters with other people. But like all writers in this field, his window to larger vistas is first opened when he embarks on a journey to catch fish. And after digesting another of his tales, what stays in my memory are the images of the fish he has taken, such as that three-foot wild rainbow he caught on a 6X tippet in an Oregon lake.
He, too, sharpens our focus on this singular quest when he writes: “Fishers need share no spoken language to understand each other. The pursuit itself casts a shadow on the wall which others so inclined will see. Often enough our prophets or gods fish for souls; but we mortals put our faith in waters, aspiring to a catch worthy of our station.”
And before I end here, let me cite further support for this overriding reason why we go to a stream or lake. The publisher and editor of this magazine ran an editorial in the January/February 2020 issue posing the question, “Of the fish we catch, which ones do we remember, and why?” He presented a summary of the nine fish that stuck in his mind, and then: “What remains are the stories, memories, and the experiences they entail, a sense of event, of place, of companionship or solitude. These are what we creel, and their value only grows in time.” It all begins with an effort to hook a fish — aspiring to a catch worthy of our station. This is the purpose we fly fishers take to the natural world, where we may also reap its full rewards. And it is the connection with a wild creature brought to hand and then gently released back to its natural haunts that closes the deal.
