Living on River Time

We all come to this sport in our own way – whether it’s through a book, movie, friend, or family member. We are captivated by the artistic beauty of it. It looks effortless, like painting the sky. It looks peaceful, standing in the middle of a river or stream.

I was introduced to fishing by the man in my life: my dad.

Both my sister and I have pictures as little ones – wild hair and colorful clothes, silly expressions on our faces – standing next to a stringer of fish or a singular fish that is just about as big as we are. That is how we grew up. Road trips in the car, going to the lake, camping, fishing all day, making hotdogs and eating potato chips, stopping for a burger on the way home, sleeping in the car with the AC on and sun in our faces. All of my favorite memories are on or around water. They’re kissed by the sun or the breeze and sung to sleep by the slap of water against the hull of a boat. They are tinged with the smell of old plastic robo-worms and the funky feeling a new brush-hog leaves on your fingers. These memories are the excitement and wonder of a fish flopping in the boat, and checking on them in the live-well and giving them names. They’re releasing slimy shimmery bodies back into the water and watching them disappear into the green-blue depths wondering what it would be like to follow them.

Contrary to how a lot of people think of fishing – we were a catch-and-release family 95% of the time. My parents fished together in tournaments that prided themselves on their live-release rate, so catching a fish and letting it go as quickly and safely as possible was almost always the name of the game. Even today, I like to eat fish, but I rarely consume my own catch. I want to release them – thank them for the opportunity to meet them, and then let them return to the place they call home. I want to watch them slip from my fingers and into a world I am biologically alienated from – a world I am still in wonder about.

I was introduced to fly fishing by the boy in my life: my partner.

I was on an airplane flying from Albuquerque, New Mexico to San Jose, California. I was seated next to a man in his late 40s, and like the socially awkward and shy person I am, I struggled to keep up a conversation with a male stranger. We had talked about golf, and then I told him how my partner was getting into fly fishing. I remember saying that it seemed cool, but I didn’t know if I could get into it – fly fishing seemed too hard, too beautiful. It was too full of mystery, experience, and wisdom. It was a sport for older men who had experienced life and loss. I was a young klutzy girl who stumbled through life because people thought she was cute, and that was my only saving grace. I had experienced loss, but the life part evaded me. I wanted to be a writer and write about deep soul-changing things, but I hadn’t experienced enough life yet to know what those things were. How could I take up an art that only the wiser, older generations participated in? Would doing so be disrespectful? A River Runs Through It was one of my favorite movies as a child. Then came all of John Wayne’s horses, Clint Eastwood’s ponchos, and of course Jeremiah Johnson’s cabin. Fly fishing was something I admired from a distance, not something I was worthy of participating in. I digress –

This kind man in the seat next to me on the airplane looked at me and said – well, he’s in love with you now and you already know how to fish – he’s going to love you even more if you learn how to fly fish.

Of course looking back now from my more-adult growth-minded perspective, this is a prime example of what supporting a culture of toxic masculinity looks like. Women, learn this skill so a man will love you and support you. *eye roll*

Of course my younger 20’s self took it to heart! My entrenched fear of inadequacy took over and said – girl, you better learn how to fly fish so you can make him proud of you, and if he’s proud of you it means he’s going to show you off and if he shows you off it means he’s happy to be with you, and if he’s happy to be with you it means he’s going to stick around. Yup – welcome to the rabbit hole of my emotionally overreactive brain.

Of course I took up fly fishing! Of course I had my partner teach me! Of course my learning process involved fights, arguments, temper-tantrums (on my part), and the loss of a TON of flys. After one particularly big fight on the river, I stomped off to a field to practice my casting alone and seriously questioned the advice I chose to take from a stranger on a plane. What made me even more angry was that I was starting to enjoy this fly fishing thing. I wanted to be good at it for myself – not just for my partner. I was falling in love with the long days on the river. The sun on my face. The smiles and laughs shared over a particularly dramatic fight with a rainbow. The sunsets over the water and the experiences of trekking up a river with your best friend.

But I wasn’t getting it, and it made me angry and mad and frustrated and humiliated. For some reason I kept making the same mistake over and over and over again with each cast. So much so that fixing it in that moment became impossible because I was so angry and tired of failing.

I would like to say that I no longer have days that I feel like this. But it would be a lie. I would also like to say that the more experienced fly fishermen I have talked to – the people who have been doing this for years and/or decades – also no longer have days that they feel like this. But it would also be a lie.

Fly fishing is hard. Sometimes it sucks. It’s using the laws of physics to make magic from your fingers while holding a stick in your hand. It’s some kind of fucked up simple sorcery that works, and when it works right and all of the pieces fall into place you can catch a fish. Then, when the connection is finally made it’s that same feeling I had as a child: watching in wonder at this powerful glittering creature disappears into the depths of the abyss wondering what it would be like to follow them.

In case you were wondering – Yes. It’s worth every second.