"Now nearly all those I loved and did not understand when I was young are dead, but I still reach out to them."
- Norman Maclean
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| As a teenager on one of many pilgrimages to the Bow River in Alberta |
As like any fly fisherman during the winter months, I spend a lot of time reflecting the past season and anticipating the new one. This of course is speckled with the odd ice fishing trip that, if anything, allows me to get out of the house and remind myself that I am still willing and able. I may even catch a fish or two if I do everything right which isn't often.
To me there is something about the cold winter here in Canada that almost purifies us. It is tied to who we are and escaping it is almost like trying to be something else entirely. This isn't to say that our winters are enjoyable by any stretch but one learns to appreciate the pace of life it brings which is essentially a crawl. Every fall we go in holding our breath and each spring we come out gasping for air as if we are being baptized. In all honesty though, it's as if mother nature is saying, " see how bad it can be?" It is also an eye opener to just how much I enjoy fishing. There is nothing that spells dedication and passion (or stupidity) like traipsing out onto a frozen lake in -37 degree Celsius weather to attempt to catch a fish you are more than likely going to let go anyway. You climb into your tent, light your heater and periodically step out to wave to the other idiots who are just as like-minded as you are.
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| A couple of Lakers destined for the smoker. |
I wonder if people who head south for the winter eventually get tired of having a tan all the time. While the rest of us are trying to catch the first good heat waves in May and June they are walking around, sticking out like smarties in a peanut bowl. Probably not, but I have thought people who travel elsewhere for the winter months to prolong/continue their fishing season may, at some point, simply get tired of catching trophy fish. It would be like the equivalent of you or me catching fifty twelve inch trout except that the twelve inch trout are leviathan Browns or some exotic saltwater species. I can see it now: somewhere in Argentina some pompous asshole is complaining that he only caught seventy five trout on size 16 dry flies and there was not one in the lot over 25 inches. I doubt that too, but I know if something were to ever push me to the brink and force me to ask myself, " why am I doing this?" then it isn't worth it. Can you sense the envy?
This isn't to say that I haven't thought about heading south for a fishing holiday, on the contrary. I plan on doing it someday when the winter eventually numbs me to my core every waking moment and I have to wear the red one piece underwear to bed (or when there are no more idiots on the lake to wave too). I am sure I will enjoy it and relish (even appreciate) every moment of it, but I doubt I would be able to stay away for too long. There is just something about my spring rebirth I am so used to that lets me appreciate those twelve inch trout a little more with each passing season. You could almost call it a "Spiritual awakening" but my wife would tell you it is just the start of the fishing season.
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| Robert Varey played an integral role in my development as a fly fisherman. |
Winter also allows me to reflect on those in my life who I get to experience my passion with, past, present and future. Looking back over the years, I have had and still have the good fortune to spend many days on the water with some real character people. Many of my fondest memories involve fly fishing and the people that were there to enjoy those moments with me. In the end it is the fisherman and not the fish that stand out. Perhaps that is why we take so many hero shots of fish we have caught. They become secondary to time spent sitting around campfires and the bonds forged in their embers.
I can vaguely remember one of the first fish I ever caught, but the mental picture of the frustration on my fathers face dealing with rats nests' and lost lures is ever so vivid. Later, as I got into fly fishing, I was fortunate to have my father encourage me
to do something he knew nothing about.
I can't imagine the feeling he
must have had as his ten year old son stood lip quivering next to a
trout pond because he lost all except one of the overpriced store bought
flies. I remember my father quickly tying on the last fly, reassuring me
the knot would hold. I remember casting and awkwardly laying down the fly line which was
followed by seconds that seemed like eternity. Then, just as suddenly as
someone flicking on a switch, I was hooked. The tip of the fly line
darted, I raised the rod tip like the books had said and like, "that," something that seemed so far away was right there in front of me. I can't imagine the feeling he must have had at that moment but from the expression on his face I can speculate. I remember that day as a turning point in my life and I hope I can look back on it after another twenty years and still appreciate it for what it was.
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| A wasted misspent youth... |
My fathers patience and persistence paid off for he has instilled a passion for the outdoors in me that burns to this day and I am ever indebted to him for that. Going forward, I know my kids will remember, "Dad loosing his shit," but I hope they won't lose site of the fact that Dad was trying. Which brings me to my little bit of wisdom of the day on parenting. The hardest part about being a dad isn't trying to encourage your kids to do the things you love to do but to let go and accept and encourage the things they want to do. I might have made some mistakes on this point but luckily I have three boys meaning I am bound to get it right eventually.
I have a group of fishing friends roughly my age now that I do most of my, " should have thought this through," fishing with. For the most part a lot of the bad ideas are mine meaning I will take 40% of the blame when trips don't go as planned. Still, I try to get out and fish with those who helped mold me as a fly fisherman though not as frequently as I would like. I am also reminded that we aren't getting any younger and as I see them less and less I am always reminded of my own mortality and that all good things will come to an end eventually. The lakes or streams have to be more easily accessible and naps are
common with these guys. I spent years fishing with them and over time we have grown apart, in distance and in life but the bond, I doubt, can ever be severed.
Some day the phone calls will stop and I will be left to hope that maybe at least one of my kids will want to take me fishing.
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| Codi Butterfield on an Alberta lake. |
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| Good friendships can be found and forged on a trout lake. |
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