Some weeks just don’t go as planned, though I would like to think I should expect that by now. I can be a bit idealistic about routine, but Wednesday reminded me otherwise. I was asked to officiate a funeral on Friday. Yes, the Friday that was two days away. We met on Thursday, I got a draft sent to the family that evening and less than 48 hours later, I was standing next to an open hole in the earth attempting to guide a tight-knit family along the well-worn yet never-the-same path of letting go. Being a spiritual leader in a small town means flexibility and a healthy dose of “it is what it is.”
I wouldn’t say that this work gets easier. Grief isn’t easy. Loss isn’t light. But this work has become comfortable in a way that I imagine those Mt. Everest sherpas know the paths to the camps. It is still effort and work, perhaps the word I am fishing for is “familiar”?
The deceased was a fighter, a champion of levity, beloved, and realistic. Simple and strong, in a rugged Montanan way that I have come to witness a handful of times. Simple is not synonymous with easy with these folks. They are dedicated, hardworking, salt of the earth folk. I’ve come to admire them.
These are the type of folks that give directions not by street names but through local landmarks. Turn right at the Dairy Queen (there is only one to be found along a 120-mile stretch). Take a left at the old Johnson’s place, if you see the Smith’s new truck, you’ve gone too far. Local knowledge and know-how take time, patience, and dedication to learn. But in time we grow fond of locals and suspicious of the out-of-towners. That, too, becomes familiar.
There is a fishing hole that is common to many fishers in the area. I was down there last night with a few friends and helped one catch her first fish on a fly rod. Excitement filled my bones, maybe more than hers. I’ve fished this spot numerous times and since it is well known with a well-worn fisher’s path to it, I don’t feel like I am giving up too many secrets by taking friends here. They keep asking for my other spots and, little do they know, this is the best one. At least that’s what I tell them.
At the top of the hole, there is a rut between a downed log and a rock. I’ve lost plenty of flies to both and, by chance, have hooked into two of my lost rigs. Now that was a surprise. There is a nice spot of faster water we call a riffle, and a bunch of fish live at the head of the pool directly downstream. If you get the depth right, you just might catch one. But beware the ever elusive “stick fish” (this is just a water logged stick you can reel in). This is one of my favorite spots, mostly because I’m familiar with the trout and whitefish that live there. Familiar, like a well-worn path, a long-practiced cast, and a family’s grief can all feel strangely known, yet are never the same.
I’ve lost some flies to the log in the bottom, the branches above, and sometimes check to see if my old flies are still up there. Breaking off flies isn’t fun, but it is part of the challenge. It is what it is.
I handed my rod to my friend and gave some instructions on casting. Sometimes I try out different ways of saying things to see what sticks. One thing I’ve said when talking about a water load cast is, “smell your armpit and throw the Frisbee.” It might be one of those things that make sense if you were there.
She gets the cast, gets the distance, gets a nice drift and boom, the indicator drops and she sets the hook. The first fish got launched to a new zip code. The second managed to sneak away. There may have been a few others I lost track of counting, and darned-it she got one in the net.
We fished some more, practiced familiar techniques, tied and retied our rigs and flies. There is just something nostalgic about having a friend witness you catch a nice one.
Holding space for the grief of others and fly fishing teach the same lesson: familiarity doesn’t mean predictability, and effort is often met with surprise.
The sun was setting even though the fish were biting. I needed to get home and reluctantly packed my gear and slogged back to the car. I won’t get to wade in the warm summer waters much longer. Seasons are shifting, changes are happening, and as it is with life, loss, love, and fishing, it is what it is.