I wrote my last post just before heading off for a few days of fishing and camping in northern New Hampshire. That was several weeks ago now, but the memory is staying with me. It was good for my soul to be out in that beautiful country; walking through the woods and standing in moving water, watching the water flow by, “hoping that a trout will rise,” as Norman MacLean put it.
The Connecticut River, Pittsburg, NH
One of my favorite writers about angling is Thomas McGuane. In a forward to a book of essays, he writes, “I simply feel that the frontier of angling is no longer either technical or geographical. The Bible tells us to watch and listen. Something like this suggests what fishing ought to be about: using the ceremony of our sport and passion to arouse greater reverberations within ourselves.”
As a younger angler, I often made the mistake of equating a good day fishing with how many I caught. It’s certainly fun to catch (and release) fish, but I’m learning that the greater pleasure is just being out there, playing around in moving water. I think of it as a grown-up version of what my friends and I did when we were kids—messing around in a creek, getting wet, turning over rocks, seeing what we might find.
Pleasure in fishing might come from being out in interesting weather, or from noticing a bird or flower, or a thermos of coffee on a cold and rainy day. On this trip, I loved the stretch of river nearest to my campsite. It was a joy to walk there, way better than getting to the river by car. That section was a mix of big boulders, fast water, and deep holes, as well as some slower water, ideal for the evening caddisfly hatch. It was fun to get to know that stretch of water over the three days I fished it, and to learn a few things along the way.
For me, fishing is freedom. It’s a respite from the cares of the world, and from the busyness of my own mind. One evening on this trip, as the sun was going down, I found myself remember my grandfather, who I’m named after. The light on the water and the smell of the woods reminded me of the pond we used to fish in North Carolina. In the heat of the summer, we’d go out after supper, and fish until dark. That evening on the Connecticut River, I felt my Grandpa near. Casting my fly onto the quiet water, I remembered those days, a long time ago. I felt his presence, and that connection was a blessing greater than any fish I will ever encounter.