the dharma blog

I almost didn’t go fishing tonight. All afternoon as I closely monitored the weather radar it seemed like I was looking for some excuse to go home and sit on my ass. I wanted a good June evening of fishing, but I haven’t felt very confident since getting skunked a week-and-a-half ago, and not being confident is a good path toward not catching anything. And I didn’t want to drive somewhere, get rained on, and get skunked to boot.

But I went. It’s a strange little river, where you can’t expect to catch any fish, but you can hope to catch a big one. One day in August last year, on this river, I caught the biggest trout I ever have. That was on my first visit. I had nearly given up that night after dragging myself through the shoulder high weeds and not seeing any fishy water. But then I’d seen the big trout just under the surface and a few moments and a cast later he’d taken my cricket pattern and I’d gotten my first big one.

The hike back to that hole was easier tonight because I knew right where I was going. It made me think about the spirit of adventure in trout fishing. I’ll never forget catching that big trout last year, not because of its size or my fishing skill, but because I’d sweated so hard getting there, stumbled along the banks, tripped over fallen logs, swarmed by mosquitoes. Tonight, I skirted the hell of those trackless banks, arrived at that shady little corner of the river with a minimum of effort.

The hole is deep against the far bank and the water, stained by all the rain we’ve had, was dark and impenetrable. A storm was far off and the breeze was stirring the tops of the cottonwoods, knocking the trunks together so they groaned and sighed, grunting in a way that made me think of a bear. The birds stirred the grass and the water bubbled against the overhanging branches. As I lobbed the big weighted rig up into the run, the front moved in. Sometimes the sun made its way down to me, other times it was gray and dim.

I worked the hole for a bit, lost two of my wooly buggers to the trees (it’s the kind of river where the bigger and uglier the bugger, the better), and headed downstream where I knew there are some big deep runs where 20″ fish are unsurprising.

I made my way to what is possibly the strangest trout hole in the state. Two distinct currents enter it and scour out something probably eight feet deep. I tried a little dry fly attractor pattern first, hoping that one of the two fish I’d heard rise since I walked up might be interested. They weren’t.

I went back to the bugger and worked through the hole up and down, trying to get the big flashy fly in front of a hungry fish. A considerable amount of time, and a couple missed strikes, later, it worked. I got on a good, strong fish that did not want to come to me. He used the tricky currents to his advantage, running down into faster water where he might benefit from its strength. His own slowly left him.

I played the fish as quickly as I could without horsing him through the current, but when I got him in the net he seemed tired. I snapped a quick photo, keeping him in his liquid home, then tried unhooking him. I didn’t have my forceps, stupid move. It took me a while to get the hook out of his lower lip. When I did, his teeth had grabbed some net and when I finally got him free he flopped into the water. My hands were full with the net, rod, everything and I tried to grab him so I could hold him for a moment, let him catch his breath so to speak, but the current grabbed him and he started to drift away. At first, he seemed like he might be okay, but as he floated away he was laying on his side. I jumped up and tried to get him in the net again so I could try reviving him but then the current carried him away and down and he disappeared into the river.

It would have been one thing if I had been going fishing intending to kill some dinner. But this fish was most likely going to die for my recreation. Something for me to do on a summer evening after work. I didn’t feel good. I told myself that he would be another animal’s meal before the sun set most likely, but it was hard to not feel like I had interfered wantonly, pointlessly.

Other fish I’ve caught and released have most likely died, but none so evidently to me. It was startling. I set my rod and net down on the bank and knelt in the shallows and thought for a minute.

After a few moments and some internal debate, I went back to fishing. But my head wasn’t in it. I fished angrily, which is even worse than fishing unconfidently. It wasn’t that I was so pissed that the fish had died, but the manner in which he had. I had made a bunch of bonehead moves handling him. I didn’t know why I had to take the picture. Why I hadn’t held him after taking him out of the net, set my rod down or something so I could have more quickly gotten him free. Why I hadn’t made sure to hold him after he was free so he could take the time to get oxygen over his gills while he wasn’t also trying to stay upright.

I fished a bit more but, not surprisingly, didn’t catch anything. I thought too much of his pale stomach floating along the bottom.

When I left the river and started the mile hike back to my car I was sweating a lot. It was a muggy night and the big storm was finally rolling in. I could see it well as I walked across the big field and thought I’d be lucky to be in my car when the rain came.

I drove west through flat farmland, straight toward the storm. Lightning flashed in its depths and huge clouds reached down from high toward the green land. I thought how life is a lot like lightning, random and dangerous, brilliant and fleeting.

I don’t think I’m a flakey city boy who can’t handle death. It is the destiny of everything that lives and it is what makes us alive. But I can’t help not liking the memory of that fish, helpless, damaged by my own hand. I debated if I should even write about it. Does it cheapen the death, my actions? I decided it didn’t, so long as I was honest. Will it reflect poorly on me? It already does.