The Fishing Comes First

Blame the close of one millenium or the opening of another. Attribute the urge to a natural response to books I’ve read recently: Jerry Dennis’s The River Home; John Gierach’s Standing in a River Waving a Stick; Thomas McGuane’s The Longest Silence; Craig Nova’s Brook Trout and the Writing Life; and W.D. Wetherell’s One River More--collections all of personal essays on fly fishing. Or say it’s the need of all anglers over sixty to reflect on the meaning and the importance of fishing in their lives. Whatever the motivation, I have been moved lately to such reflection and examination, processes that have made me grateful for the fifty-odd years of angling that I’ve been given. Grateful for the lakes and rivers, grateful for the friends who have enjoyed and enriched the sport with and for me, and grateful for the fish, caught and--especially at this point in my life-- uncaught, that have filled me with wonder, awe, and, finally, appreciation.

One should learn something in a half century of doing anything, and I can proudly report that I have, indeed, learned a few things about fishing over the years: how to catch fish most of the time; how to enjoy the times when and I do and the times when I don’t catch them; how to laugh at myself (most of the time) in either event; and most important I’ve learned that fishing is after all, for an angler, just fishing. I’ve learned that angling is neither a metaphor nor a substitute for life, and unless we fish for income or subsistence, catching a lot of fish, the most fish, big fish, or the biggest fish isn’t really meaningful. I’ve learned--to paraphrase John Cole--that the fishing comes first.

This is a great precept and it serves me well--now. But consider how I got here. As a youngster I wanted a fish on every cast; bigger fish were better because they proved something about me, and truly big fish were fulfillment itself. A half century’s complement of fishing friends and partners has taught me that we’ve all been there, and I’ve come to realize that those values aren’t wrong; that they are simply the values that come naturally with newcomers to the sport. We all had, and to some degree, have them still. Would I--or you--have pursued some pastime for fifty years if it didn’t excite or arouse us? If we didn’t feel that it satisfied an atavistic survival instinct? Would the aesthetic and intellectual assets of fishing have kept us engaged from the outset, or did we need the visceral delight of catching? You’ve seen my answer, and I suspect that I know yours.

A few essays in the books I read recently decry angling’s current state: too many Gore-Tex, pile, and neoprene clad gonzo fly fishermen lashing the writers’ favorite waters with expensive graphite rods, all of them intent on catching as many of their finny adversaries as possible. True, fifty years ago there were fewer of us; Gore-Tex, pile, and neoprene hadn’t been invented; Hunter Thompson was only ten years old, and we wielded production rods of bamboo or fiberglass, but our intent was the same.

Only years, experience, and fish separate us from the newcomers--allow us the luxury of the fishing comes first. Of those elements, newcomers can be certain only of one--years. Experience and fish are dependent on productive, available water and on sensible stewardship and management of our fisheries. We can provide both with support and initiatives for such local, national, and international organizations as Anglers of the Au Sable, Henry’s Fork Foundation, Coastal Conservation Association, Trout Unlimited, and the Atlantic Salmon Federation. And, of course, through our own respect for the fisheries and the fish.

Such respect leads inevitably to concerns for environment, water quality, sustainable kill limits, and an appreciation for every fish caught, released, or lost that graces an angler’s day. Each of them becomes part of the answer to that eternal question, "Why do you fish?" RWOL

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