Falling Back to Earth

The fishing was good, although it was awfully early after a late night of mousing and whiskey under the dazzling Perseids meteor shower. Sam sat on the bank of the river in the haze of the warm and humid August morning. He sipped tea from his thermos and nibbled on unsalted raw cashews as he considered the morning’s tough, technical fishing that required casting microscopic size 26 trico dry flies attached to the hair-thin monofilament tippet.

Just moments ago he was casting to the many fish that were rising methodically at the runout of a jostling riffle, catching several brook trout. He would give thanks for the colorful brilliance and beauty of each one, and then gently release them back into the crystal clear waters where they now belonged.

It wasn’t always that way. The South Branch of the Au Sable River once held no trout and instead was home to a unique strain of Arctic grayling that have since been extirpated. This fact saddened him. Yet he found comfort in realizing that while he could not change the past, he could learn from it. Instead of worrying, he marveled at the novel ecosystem that is now the state-protected Mason Tract along the South Branch.

As he munched, sipped, and reflected, the stillness of the landscape was broken by distant splashing.

Sam looked up and saw a man emerge from behind the willows on a bend upstream. The angler crossed over to the same bank where he was sitting and seemed not to notice Sam there in the dull morning light. The man began to walk north along the stream-side trail toward Sam.

As he got closer, Sam observed that he was impeccably outfitted. It made him think of the lyrics from the Greg Brown’s song “Fishing with Bill,”

See some folks out on the river
Cool, scientific and clean
They look like everything just kinda stuck to them
The last time they walked through ol' L. L. Bean

The man was a bit startled when he saw Sam lounging in the grass and stream side sedges. He lifted a nervous hand and gave a half-hearted wave from waist level. As he got closer, he cheerfully asked Sam, “Any luck?”

Sam quietly replied, “A little.” 

Sam then added, “The tricos spun for quite a while for it being so early in the morning. Must have been the humidity.”

“Tricos?” the man asked.

Sam politely explained the small bugs and their habits, thinking to himself that this guy must not fish much. His observation was quickly affirmed by the man’s self-admission that he had just taken up fishing at the suggestion of his physician. 

He introduced himself and explained to Sam that he was a high-level executive with an unmentioned auto manufacturer downstate. Working, raising three kids, moving to a new home (which he justified as a better investment), aging parents, and workplace politics had all taken their toll on his health. He disclosed that he wondered where the last ten years had gone, and that he was recently experiencing regular tension headaches and what he called a “quickening pulse.” That’s why his doctor pointed out that he either needed to make some changes or face the consequences. 

He had come to the river looking for relief.

“I thought maybe if I got out here early and threw some big, juicy streamers, I might chase up a big brown or two,” the executive said.

Sam nodded and thought that the man should have been here hours ago deep in the darkness of the previous night. A faint smile came across Sam’s face as he remembered the predatory browns that smashed the deer hair mouse at the end of his line under the lonely light of the stars above. With no moon to help him see, the weighty tugs felt like the river itself was swallowing the fly. If only more of the trout had latched onto his mouse and stayed stuck. Yet he was content with the memory of a beautiful night and the one magnificent fish brought to the net. 

Sam’s thoughts scattered when the man asked, “Do you think that will work?”

“Those big streamers? Maybe,” Sam charitably replied. He did not want to dash the man’s hopes. 

Sam felt compassion for him. The man seemed to be fighting to break free of the haphazard priorities he mindlessly acquired over the years. He clearly came to the river because he was looking to replace old achievements with new ones. Out of care, Sam wondered how he might encourage the man to focus less on expectations and more on just living life.

Sam carefully said, “In this still morning heat, I prefer to take a more nuanced approach.”

Having measured Sam up by his simple outfit, faded fly shop trucker’s hat, and plain gear, the CEO recognized that he was out of his typical corporate environment and his usual competitive social circles. He was not used to asking for help and felt vulnerable. In his world, questions are considered a sign of weakness and reserved only for digging up information used to hold others accountable.

The man uncomfortably asked, “Like what?”

Sam said, “Come with me,” as he got up and stepped into the river.

The man followed, and they waded out to midstream below the riffle where the water was knee deep. Sam showed the man the tiny trico fly in his hand. The man commented that the fly looked a lot like what they tried to sell him over at Gates Fly Shop, but different. He remarked that he passed on the tiny flies in hopes of catching large trout.

Gently Sam explained that at this time, and in this place, the trout focus on the large quantity of small bites, and not on one big meal. 

“Right now it’s brunch, not dinner. The fish are picking at hors d’oeuvres, not gulping cheeseburgers.  Cheeseburgers happened last night,” Sam explained. “But that’s a conversation for later. Right now it’s these tiny tricos and those beautiful brookies.”

Sam pulled a small fly box out of the pocket of his waders, plucked out three small tricos just like the one on the end of his line, and handed them to the man.

“Here. These will get you started.”

As they reached the middle of the river, their attention turned upstream where there were still some brookies rising to the few spent spinners floating by, but nothing like a half hour ago.

As Sam prepared to cast, the man noticed the thinness of his tippet and asked “Is that the tiny-ass 8x they were also trying to sell me along with those flies?”

“Sure is,” said Sam. “They weren’t trying to prove you wrong or just make a fast buck. They know what works out here. The challenge for them is that what happens out here day after day does not line up with most of those three-minute videos on YouTube or 98% of what you see on Instagram. That action-packed stuff is great and motivating, but it just ain’t reality, and as much as we want it, it’s not what we have in front of us on the South Branch at eight a.m. on a Thursday morning in late August. Right now, we’re going to cast to those beautiful rising brook trout.”

Sam turned upstream and deftly cast the tiny fly as if it had more weight, letting the fly line do the work.

The CEO watched as Sam cut the air with his fly line. Whenever his hand probed or his shoulder heaved, whenever his foot moved or his knee thrust, the fly line whirred and fell away. The rod flashed and the line hissed, his rhythm centered and ancient and never faltering, like a rainmaker dancing, like he was conducting the orchestra of the Earth.

“Unbelievable!” said the CEO about Sam’s effortless casting. “A skill so perfected - it’s unbelievable!” 

Sam let his fly drop lightly to the water. 

Emphasizing his first word, Sam explained, “Being in this place in this moment, really getting with what’s in front of me, is what I care about. The reality of being in this present place and moment goes beyond mere skill. When I first began fishing I could see nothing but the river. After three years, I could see more than the just the river. And now, I meet the river in spirit.”

Sam casted again.

“I’ve stopped looking with my eyes. When perception and understanding cease, the spirit moves freely. Trusting the principles of nature I send the fly slicing through the air to land right in the seam where the fish are rising, and I let it drift there unfettered as if the tiny edge of the seam is a mile wide. Keeping my skill constant and essential, I just slip the fly through, never drifting left or right, let alone picking up drag.”

A trout slashed and the fly was gone. Sam gently stripped the fly line, working the trout downstream to his hand. It was a ten-inch male brookie resplendent with fall mating colors. Sam slipped the trout from his barbless hook and it was gone in a flash.

Sam dropped the fly into his bottle of desiccant, shook it, and continued. “An exceptional angler casts with care, and so only needs a new fly every time on the river. An ordinary angler fishes tense with anticipation, so needs a new fly after every fish. Now, I tied this fly back in mid-July as the tricos first began emerging from the river: it’s taken hundreds of brook trout but it’s still sharp, still fresh from the tying bench. There’s a space in the trout’s lip, and the hook has no barb and thus little thickness. Having no thickness, it slips right through. There’s plenty of room - more than enough for a hook to pierce. That’s why, after six weeks, it’s still fresh from the bench.”

Sam admired the fly, then dropped it to the water and watched as it drifted downstream. He then lifted the tip of his rod and the line followed as he made his next presentation. False casting only once, he dropped the fly lightly into the next seam over.

“Even so, I often come up against a knotty run where I stop and study the river and its currents. Growing timid and cautious, I focus my vision, then work slowly, casting the fly with great care - and suddenly thomp! thomp! things come apart, like clumps of dirt falling back to earth. Holding my rod, I stand back and look all around me, utterly content and satisfied.”

The fly had drifted back towards Sam, so he casted again, with the fly landing just a few inches to the right of where he placed his last cast.

Instantly another trout struck. This time a chubby female, a little larger with more subtle colors than the previous fish.

As Sam slipped the trout back into the coolness of the water, the CEO, peered over Sam’s shoulder, shook his head and said, “Wow. They may not be the big browns that I had in mind, but damn those fish are gorgeous!”

Sam nodded with a smile, then took out his desiccant, shook the fly dry, and clipped it from his tippet. He put it away.

“How marvelous!” said the executive. “I listen to the words of a lone angler, and suddenly I’ve learned how to care for life itself!” 

Sam smiled.

They turned and waded down stream a few paces in silence.

Sam then turned and said, “How would you like to see about getting some cheeseburgers tonight?”

The wisdom Sam imparts to the CEO comes from the early Taoist text The Inner Chapters by Chuang Tzu. The chapter is adeptly called “To Care for this Life”, and the text is section two, more commonly known as “Carving Up an Ox”. In this case, it fishing, not butchering. Special thanks to sinologist David Hinton for his delightful and instructive translation of this fourth-century B.C.E. work in his book The Four Chinese Classics from Counterpoint Press (2013). Some  of Sam’s words are respectively lifted directly from this text with gratitude for the wisdom shared by Chuang Tzu and the translation of David Hinton.

“Fishing with Bill” comes from the 1992 album Friend of Mine by Greg Brown and Bill Morrissey.