Lost Count of Lost Flies
A Bird, A Rock, and a Snake
I am thankful to the team of spiritual care providers at the hospital that held a call for me on Saturday so I could get out and explore some more of a local river. I love the work I do as a chaplain, and I love the way I find restoration of my soul on the river. There is something about standing knee-deep or more in snowmelt and glacial runoff that helps you feel grounded, connected, and alive. I have waders and boots on, but the chill still soothes the tender and sore places in my mind and body.
I pulled up to one of the spots I had been debating going to. Each time I am preparing to go fish, I think of the four or five different rivers I want to fish and then try to narrow down the spots where I know I can fish. It usually depends on when I can leave and when I need to be back so that I can get the most time in the water. I decided to drive along a road with a few different access points and park at the first empty one. I pulled into the spot I was hoping for and didn’t see another person all day. Now that is what angling dreams are made of.
A fair amount of thought usually goes into the setup of fly fishing, such as what flies to tie on, how you plan to fish them, what bugs are in the water, and then trying to read the water and figure out where the fish are. Then again, it isn’t all too difficult once you have the basics of knots, depths, and stubborn determination. Isn’t the definition of insanity doing the same thing over and over again, expecting a different result? The fish regularly, but not always, save me from being a clinically defined crazy river guy.
But once you get into the first fish, your “tactical brain” shuts off: you’ve found them. Now the “being brain” gets to turn on. I sort of have a new favorite spot with a rock I can sit on while fishing. I say sort of because part of the year, the water is too high to sit without getting soaked, even with chest-high waders on. I suppose this sort of thinking is seasonal.
And isn’t that life? We get so hurried or overwhelmed by all that goes on around us. Ever felt nervous just sitting with your thoughts for a minute? I wonder what things would be like if we tuned in to those inner voices and became more curious about what they had to say.
When I do get to sit on that rock, I think about the things I’ve been meaning to do but haven’t had the time to. When the bites slow down, I have two options: stay with my thoughts or find some new water. If I have a few more hours, I’ll do both.
I hooked into a few fish, then a few bigger fish. One that took my whole bobber and leader, another that took my fly with a beautiful leap and a brilliant red flash along its body. Overall, I had a few tangles, a few finger pokes, and gave a few flies a wonderful new home on a branch of a Cottonwood. They now have a new, great bird’s-eye view of the water.
Not everything went as picture-perfect as a Western Montana sunset. Nothing is more demoralizing than that subtle plop your bead-headed fly makes going into the water. And there I was, thinking I was holding on to everything securely. It’s almost like fly fishing was made for metaphor.
After getting into a few fish, I decided to explore a new hole that looked pretty good from the map I used. The bank was pretty steep, so I got my journal out and wrote down the different catches I had. As I made some notes, I looked up and saw an Osprey overhead, looking at the water, then looking at me. Perhaps it was the euphoria of the moment, but I swear I saw that bird give me a nod like, “Ah, yes, you were here first, I’ll go to the next one.” It was almost as if this Osprey had the common courtesy of a fellow fisher.
I took this as a sign that the fishing here was good; it looked a bit shallower than I was fishing before, so I shortened things up and, sure enough, got into a Native Mountain Whitefish. The difference between me and the Osprey is that I throw back what I catch. He needs it for survival more than I do. As I knelt in the water to let this fish go, I heard a rustling in the grass behind me. Then a thud.
I have heard stories, maybe they could be called myths, about snakes being in these parts. And that myth just became a legend, a bit more truth than you’d care to admit, and a lot more surprise than you're hoping for. This thought process was immediately followed by some “words unbecoming of a chaplain.” I took that as my cue to move on. And so I did.
As I sat on that rock, I penciled a confession. I’ll be the first to admit: I wish I had understood what that Osprey was signaling sooner. I truly hope it is not the case that I need more thuds of snakes to encourage me to move on from things that aren’t meant for me. As I write tonight, I wonder if that Osprey was inviting me to follow it to a safer fishing hole, free of snakes. I wonder how many decisions I have made would be better served by more clarity. I doubt I could count them all.
Whether that be jobs that weren’t the right fit, denominational affiliations that ultimately were unsupportive, or perhaps some old high-school dating blunders, there are plenty of decisions we wish we did differently. The only thing to do now is to learn, reflect, and find different ways forward.
After all that, I sat and enjoyed the view of the river for a while, feeling the cool rush of the current at my feet. I pulled out my notebook and wrote the following:
5/26
5 Whitefish
2 Westslope Cutthroat
1 Lost Leader
1 Snake
4 Tangles
2 Tree Snags
Lost count of lost flies
Couldn’t be happier.
Some days, the river welcomes you with beauty. Other days, it comes with a well-timed snake.
This is beautiful AJ. This has be thinking. But then again, you always kea e us thinking!