(Published with permission of the author, Glenn Busch)
When you go on as many fishing trips as I do, you can't expect them all to turn out great. Some will...with terrific weather, lots of fish, boon companionship, no complications, and memories that leave you panting for the next time. But it won't always be that way.
Some trips are just so-so, and, by the law of averages, you even are bound to draw a real stinker once in a while. For example, consider the time when my buddies and I took a much-anticipated trip to the Elk River in West Virginia, only to be greeted by rain so heavy that it turned the river into a churning cataract of foaming fury.
Then there was the time Dave and I took a week off and drove north to fish the fabled streams of the Catskill Mountains. We were raring to go, but the fish and aquatic life weren't. Our planning had been off, or Mother Nature's had been. Spring was late arriving that year, and the water was still Arctic cold, to which I readily can attest, having fallen in over my head, which only added to the torments of our futile efforts. We stalked those vaunted streams and flogged their waters for six solid days and didn't catch a fish.
But even with these and other accumulated tales of woe--and I'm sitting here with a straight face and a clear conscience as I write this--I don't regret any of those busted trips, because the success of a trip isn't defined solely by the number of fish that are caught.
Consider our most recent trip, from which some buddies and I have just returned. It was the old crew again, the group of guys who have been doing this five-day outing twice annually for the past 38 years. We arrived at the lodge around noon on Wednesday, ate a quick lunch, and drove to a spot on the Jackson River just below the Gathright Dam, where a reliable source had told us that fish were being caught. Maybe they were, but not that day, not by us. When evening settled in, we reeled in and made our way back to the lodge for happy hour without having caught a single fish.
Ditto the next day, even though we tried a different stream that had treated us well in the past. The most notable event of the day for me came when I stumbled and snapped my rod, a late vintage model that cost about as much as I paid for a semester of college tuition. Granted, that was some time ago, when tuition still was in the high-three figures, but still... .
By day three, we were getting desperate for the tug of a trout...so desperate that we resorted to making reservations at one of those over-priced streams that are heavily stocked with stupid fish. An angler I know once described such fishing as being a lot like taking a laxative: You're pleased enough with the results, but it's not something you want to brag about. As I said, we were getting desperate.
We caught and released an embarrassing load of those dullard rainbows by the time we were ready to leave...at which point, John, who had not been looking too well since we arrived, announced that he was coming down with the flu.
On day four, John stayed in bed and nursed his flu, while Dave and I drove back to the stream that had disappointed us two days before. One strike that resulted in one fish was all I could account for, while Dave didn't even bother to slip into his waders, preferring, instead, to swap stories with a few of the anglers who had given up because the fish weren't eating.
Day five, we tried the Jackson below the dam for an hour again, until the Corps (of Engineers) jacked the release, and high water forced us to head for higher ground.
So there you have it...the fishing part, anyway. But here's the thing: Counting catches doesn't tell the whole story. And that's where fishing, if you do enough of it, is a microcosm of life's journey, one that can teach some valuable lessons about the rest of it...the nonfishing part.
Fishing can be enjoyable and usually is, but sometimes disappointment shows up, and things don't turn out as planned. There might even be some adversity along the way. Rods get broken, people get sick, the weather doesn't cooperate, and, well, s*** happens, and you have to make the best of it.
My buddies and I could have moaned about the lockjaw fish and let it ruin our time together, but we didn't. We were outdoors, with spring unfolding in leafy bloom, enjoying some of the best scenery you ever could hope to see. In the evening, we relaxed on the deck with a drink, as we watched the sun set over the river, and we laughed about old memories and all the mishaps we've endured.
Considering the whole package and a personal choice of perspective--always a daily option--I would have to say that it's been worthwhile, and I'm grateful for all of it.
About the author: Due entirely to his father's military service, Glenn was born in Kissimmee, FL, just months before his dad mustered out, and the family returned to their Pittsburgh, PA home. A graduate of Penn State University, he began a career as an Episcopal priest in 1971, and served churches in Virginia and North Carolina, before retiring in 2008 as rector emeritus of St. Mary's Church in High Point, NC, after a pastorate of more than 27 years. It was during the High Point years that he also became a college teacher. While still serving as rector of the parish, High Point University asked him to become an adjunct faculty member, where, for 18 years, he taught for the department of religion and philosophy. Glenn and his wife, Kathleen, have two children and two grandchildren upon whom they dote as often as time and distance will allow. They retired to Lynchburg, VA in 2008, where Kathleen paints and he writes. "Thanks once again, my good friend, for allowing me this opportunity to share one of your blog posts with my readers."
Some trips are just so-so, and, by the law of averages, you even are bound to draw a real stinker once in a while. For example, consider the time when my buddies and I took a much-anticipated trip to the Elk River in West Virginia, only to be greeted by rain so heavy that it turned the river into a churning cataract of foaming fury.
Then there was the time Dave and I took a week off and drove north to fish the fabled streams of the Catskill Mountains. We were raring to go, but the fish and aquatic life weren't. Our planning had been off, or Mother Nature's had been. Spring was late arriving that year, and the water was still Arctic cold, to which I readily can attest, having fallen in over my head, which only added to the torments of our futile efforts. We stalked those vaunted streams and flogged their waters for six solid days and didn't catch a fish.
But even with these and other accumulated tales of woe--and I'm sitting here with a straight face and a clear conscience as I write this--I don't regret any of those busted trips, because the success of a trip isn't defined solely by the number of fish that are caught.
Consider our most recent trip, from which some buddies and I have just returned. It was the old crew again, the group of guys who have been doing this five-day outing twice annually for the past 38 years. We arrived at the lodge around noon on Wednesday, ate a quick lunch, and drove to a spot on the Jackson River just below the Gathright Dam, where a reliable source had told us that fish were being caught. Maybe they were, but not that day, not by us. When evening settled in, we reeled in and made our way back to the lodge for happy hour without having caught a single fish.
Ditto the next day, even though we tried a different stream that had treated us well in the past. The most notable event of the day for me came when I stumbled and snapped my rod, a late vintage model that cost about as much as I paid for a semester of college tuition. Granted, that was some time ago, when tuition still was in the high-three figures, but still... .
By day three, we were getting desperate for the tug of a trout...so desperate that we resorted to making reservations at one of those over-priced streams that are heavily stocked with stupid fish. An angler I know once described such fishing as being a lot like taking a laxative: You're pleased enough with the results, but it's not something you want to brag about. As I said, we were getting desperate.
We caught and released an embarrassing load of those dullard rainbows by the time we were ready to leave...at which point, John, who had not been looking too well since we arrived, announced that he was coming down with the flu.
On day four, John stayed in bed and nursed his flu, while Dave and I drove back to the stream that had disappointed us two days before. One strike that resulted in one fish was all I could account for, while Dave didn't even bother to slip into his waders, preferring, instead, to swap stories with a few of the anglers who had given up because the fish weren't eating.
Day five, we tried the Jackson below the dam for an hour again, until the Corps (of Engineers) jacked the release, and high water forced us to head for higher ground.
So there you have it...the fishing part, anyway. But here's the thing: Counting catches doesn't tell the whole story. And that's where fishing, if you do enough of it, is a microcosm of life's journey, one that can teach some valuable lessons about the rest of it...the nonfishing part.
Fishing can be enjoyable and usually is, but sometimes disappointment shows up, and things don't turn out as planned. There might even be some adversity along the way. Rods get broken, people get sick, the weather doesn't cooperate, and, well, s*** happens, and you have to make the best of it.
My buddies and I could have moaned about the lockjaw fish and let it ruin our time together, but we didn't. We were outdoors, with spring unfolding in leafy bloom, enjoying some of the best scenery you ever could hope to see. In the evening, we relaxed on the deck with a drink, as we watched the sun set over the river, and we laughed about old memories and all the mishaps we've endured.
Considering the whole package and a personal choice of perspective--always a daily option--I would have to say that it's been worthwhile, and I'm grateful for all of it.
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