A few days ago I entered another phase of my fly fishing journey. The phase only attained after the recurring accumulation of ignorance and humiliation. When fly fishing I often feel like a freshmen psychology student; I know just enough to be dangerous.
While traipsing around a small section of Sitka’s Indian River I managed to “catch” a few log-sized Chum salmon. One of them made it near my net, three of them are sporting snazzy pink feathers in their lips, and one battled with me for twenty minutes before folding up in my tiny net and then swimming to freedom.
A fair assessment of this outing would read: “Didn’t know what he was doing. Kind of caught fish. Didn’t lose flies in trees, only in fish. Seems to think he’s Brad Pitt.”
Prior to my Alaskan fly fishing baptism, I had never seen a Clouser Minnow, let alone did I know how to fish with one tied to the end of my rod. In fact, up to this point in my fly fishing career I had only sought to embody the disciple whom Jesus loved, and hook my fish on a dry fly (hat tip: Norman Maclean).
Standing on the bank of the rainforest encased Indian River, lush and vibrant greens in every direction, I saw spawning salmon galore. Not so many that I could walk on them without getting wet, but enough to let my fishing hubris begin to float. If you can see the tanker swimming a few feet away, shouldn’t you be able to attach it to a tiny hook tied on the end of a neon green minnow knockoff?
The answer, which came as a surprise to me, is yes!
Wading through the chilly water, allowing my feet to grow numb, I tried to plop the streamer a few feet upstream of the five fish I could see, then began to strip my line and make the minnow dance in front of their hoovering faces. Turns out these salmon are smart enough not to mistake the psychedelic colors for food, but they are prone to get pissed. The chomp was subtle, but because all they are conditioned to do is keep swimming the tug sets the hook as their heft lurches up river and my spindly arms strip down.
The embarrassing part of this fish story is summarized in one word, the bane of all fly fishing fiascos:
Impatience.
On this day I was not mentally prepared to do battle in the claustrophobic confines of the river for a twenty minute spell after hooking up with a honker. Each time I caught a fish I was in a rush. And in my haste, lines would snap while the salmon would win another pink party favor. Yes, it turns out, in my ignorance, this was also an equipment issue (3x leader wasn’t ideal), but it was also a naive belief that I could flip a four pound salmon into my hands after a quick hook set.
Round after round the fish won, my feet got colder, and I became more demoralized. “What was I doing wrong?!” I (internally) shouted at the invisible fishing guides among me. Above all, at this low point on the river, I only wanted to stop hurting fish and littering the water. My fly fishing instincts are not bereft of my lifelong sensitive spirit. However, I can also be a stubborn S.O.B., so I river soldiered on.
Cast, mend, strip. Repeat.
Then, a flopper! The salmon, the one I vowed to bring to my hands, jumped and twisted, scattering his school mates. Patience I whispered to myself. Go slow. Take your time.
For the next twenty minutes we swirled all over the quick flowing river as the fish never seemed to tire, a master in patience… for its entire lifecycle represents such patience, even to the point of sacrifice. In real time(I refrained from the “reel” pun), I was learning on the rod.
The time it took to unite ourselves was therapeutic, for the excursion was a sole-minded affair. I could not think about the hope I have for reconciled relationships, or stew on fist-swinging frustrations at centuries of injustice. I was only holding a wand with a living being attached. Really, we both just wanted to live.
And we did. No longer attached to one another. Free to move in the river again. A hearty thank you to my newest chum.