this & the next
It’s surely one the greatest cliches in outdoor—and especially fishing—writing: author places us in a setting misted not only by early morning dew, but also by the concealed possibilities of what a day, any day, on the water just might have in store. Don’t take my critical tone as an assumption that I’m skilled above such style, but merely that my hypocritical antenna as an outdoor reader is highly tuned to this template.
On an early summer morning in the new millennium—one drowned by the mist of both an unseasonably cool evening and the fog of a night spent in sleepless anticipation—I fell hopelessly, endlessly and forever in love with the sport of angling. At that point, I believe the age of six, I had been wielding a rod for several years already, having begun to develop the nuanced skills of fishing with general motor skills overall.
In the previous summer while preparing for the rigors and adversity of a kindergarten education, I had succeeded a first major threshold in angling: landing a lucky five-plus pound largemouth on a minnow and bobber at the local fishing derby. Much to my dismay—continued now as a 26-year-old adult—a pair of pre-teenage brothers took home first-place in the all-species, big-fish category with a hand-fed common carp. One that, notably, had been foul snagged by their father just down the bank from us. Sworn to silence in the face of such scandalous treachery by my forever-fair-sport-father, I begrudgingly accepted my second-place prize through grit baby teeth. The world is a cruel place, and my grapes are clearly still sour enough to make vinegar now, over two decades later.
Afterwards on the short walk back to my childhood home, both my parents and older brother offered generous words of reassurance about the virtue of playing fair and that those who try their hardest always win, regardless of outcome. Sage and considerate wisdom that fell on unhearing, overly competitive, five-year-old ears. It wasn’t until later that evening that my dad pulled me aside, not to offer pity, but to deliver a clear message: first place, second place or last, whether in kindergarten or the golden years…five-plus pound bass are one of nature’s rare and sweetest fruits. While the sting of phony defeat eroded (via a kindergartner’s frenetically circulating attention span), my dad’s words remained resonant, and the hunger to find more fish—whose cavernous mouths frightened me—grew exponentially.
A year, many daydreams and public library references of North American freshwater fish later, I found myself, a proud kindergarten graduate, bleary eyed in sparkling morning mist standing on the bow deck of my uncle’s twenty foot Stratos. The past year had not only brought a leveling up into full-day elementary school, but also a newfound age-right to accompany my dad and his closest fishing buddy, Uncle Milty, on their boat-bound excursions. In my entire life, the roiling pit of excitement that churned in me on that foggy July morning has rarely been rivaled and is a memory that I have always and will forever cherish.
Shortly after we rolled up to our first look, I placed what would become a fateful cast. Aimed towards submerged wood and having seemingly missed far left, my scrappily rigged Gitzit tube fluttered erratically downwards. It would never bottom, having been feverishly collected in the mid-column by a nice bag-builder two pounder.
It was my first fish on an artificial. First fish from a boat. First fish out of a tournament bass lake. Most importantly, it was the first time that I knew this sport would never leave me nor I it. A year of building knowledge and anticipation had culminated, as it so often does in fishing, with a fish that blew up my entire scale of expectation.
And it is this notion that brings me to my point here. Now as a full-time guide over twenty years on from that nirvanic morning in 2001, I would be lying to you if I said that I don’t excercise a massive amount of my angling resources towards the sole task of constantly and tirelessly blowing up and exceeding expectation. As I have worked hard to improve and learn, the realm of my possibility has expanded considerably. The fish and fisheries that I’m now able to consider realistic targets would’ve made my first-grade heart flutter all those years ago. In many ways, this is a good thing. It’s not rocket science to surmise that the deeper in you go and the more you invest in anything, the more you’ll get out of it. Constantly pushing expectations has provided me immense skill development and education as an angler, has afforded me a greatly expanded perspective on the sport and has made me a better outdoor steward in the aggregate.
In the space between, though, I have found myself feeling that while so much has been gained in my relationship with fishing, an amount has been lost, too. I think back on those early days when I was falling in love with this—of those first fish and experiences that would prove to be the foundation of a lifetime in angling—and I realize that my ability to view every fish, every cast and every moment as an irreplaceable gift of memory has long been clipped. At a certain point, mindset evolves independently and mine has grown increasingly indifferent to ‘this fish,’ the one right here in front of me, and all but utterly fixated on the ‘next fish.’
My dad and first fishing teacher landed his last in the summer of 2011 and passed away the following February after a ten-year battle with cancer. In his life—and especially as an angler—he categorically existed in the space of ‘this fish.’ This moment, this cast, this day is irreplaceable and to never forget it is a gift. For him in his fight, I think he knew that the ‘next fish’ was a privilege, one that he was not assured; and so every second was better spent simply appreciating rather than wanting more.
As I look ahead into the coming season, I am poised to reposition my mentality within the weathered but vividly stamped print of my dad’s footsteps. After all, the true nature of angling lies in the forging of lifelong relationships, in the memories that remain uneroded long after waders are hung and boats are trailered and, perhaps most of all, in the ancient, molecular link to the natural world that our human experience necessitates.
In your own 2022 season, I wish for clear heads, steady hands and a happy focus on or return to the childlike glee and wonder of ‘this fish,’ and as always: Eat. Breathe. Fish.