What I value most from a lifetime association with fishing for trout aren’t the fish I’ve caught, nor even the beautiful spots I’ve experienced along the way (although it’s very true that trout seldom live in ugly places).
It’s not the photographs nor paintings hanging on the wall nor the books on the shelf. It isn’t the heirloom bamboo rod or the other gear and gizmos. The ultra-chic and forever trendy wardrobe I’ve accumulated over the years—from the plaid shirts to the flip-flops, dozens of baseball caps and even “fishy” themed neckties, belts and socks that were (much appreciated) birthday and Christmas gifts—while deservedly the envy of the fashion world from Milan and Paris to Hollywood… well, nah, those aren’t it either.
As vital as fresh air
What I value most are the friendships I’ve forged over the years.
Thing is, all trout anglers—especially fly anglers—are on at least some level, kindred spirits.
I’ve never once, in my entire life, heard anyone describe the scene of a trout cautiously sipping a mayfly dun off the river surface… or for that matter, hammering a streamer it chased off the bank… as boring or blasé or even run of the mill. What those things represent to those of us who invest the time and effort to find and appreciate them, are a deep respect for nature.
And in a day and age where so much of our everyday daily lives exposes us to arguments and disrespect, isn’t it welcome respite to land on something that actually connects people rather than divides us?
I don’t know about you, but my spirit depends on feeling connected to others. That’s as vital as fresh air.
Friendships transcend
The other thing that strikes me—and only grows stronger the more I find friends through fishing—is that I believe the positive effect is not only permanent, but it also transcends any age, demographic, race, cultural, political or other factor that might otherwise prove to be a schism.
The most impressive example I can offer was that my late father-in-law, who really introduced me to fly-fishing for trout, also became one of my best friends. I consider that among the greatest blessings in my life.
I also think of chasing wild stories, like fly fishing in the South American jungles, with a group of guys whose native language I could barely understand and who didn’t always understand the things I said. But, to this day, when we bump into each other, having forged bonds through sweat, blood and fishing, we share hugs and smiles as “hermanos de la selva”… “brothers of the jungle.”
Fly fishing friends, forever
Time never erodes the bonds of fishing friendship. With some friends, it might be 10 years since we last spoke, but when we see each other, it seems like barely a day has passed and we pick up right where we left off.
“Remember that crazy rapid we rowed together?” “How about the time that bull trout chomped the rainbow you hooked in half?” “How about that white-knuckle bush plane ride!” “Hey, remember those conch fritters in the Bahamas?” “Are you still afraid of rattlesnakes?” “How’s your daughter doing? Does she still love fishing?”
Sadly, as you get older, you inevitably lose some friends along the way. But their influence lasts forever also. There’s not a story I write these days where I don’t think—at least for a little bit—“I wonder how he or she would have turned this phrase” or “I wonder how they’d feel about this…” Those connective thoughts are gifts I wouldn’t trade for the world.
Heck, you don’t even need to know me to be my friend. When I see you knee-deep in the river, I consider you a friend.
And when I see you walking through the airport with a rod tube tied to your backpack, I wonder where you’re headed and assume you must be pretty cool.
Sometimes it just takes meeting up with a friend, who happens to be your editor, to prompt a little column when you might otherwise suffer from writer’s block.
“Just write about finding friends through fly fishing,” she said.
Fair enough. Good idea. This one’s for you.