For the Anglers...Mostly

"For many fishermen, there's a ghost fish that, along with the memory of the knot that slipped, and the line that snapped, or the hook that gave, will haunt his dreams forever." (Luke Jennings, Blood Knots, 2011)

By Glenn Busch

A few weeks ago, I lost a fish, perhaps one of those fish we anglers like to refer to as "the fish of a lifetime." I don't want to settle into that degree of certainty, but it could very well have been the largest brown trout I have ever caught. Unfortunately, circumstances intervened, and the big fish got away. And it wasn't the first time.

There was that time on the South Holston when I set the hook on what felt like a concrete block. Tugging on the line a couple of times, I was convinced I'd snagged bottom, until the block started moving away...slowly, with confidence, the way a big one does when it's more annoyed than panicked.

I tried to turn that fish, with no more effect than a half-bent rod and screeching reel. With a gossamer tippet attached to the fly, all I could do was watch line unspool until the tippet snapped.

Then there was that New River smallmouth, so many years ago. Dave and I were casting cicada patterns from a drift boat, working tight to the banks, when we came opposite a pile of fallen timber--ideal habitat for lunker bass.

What looked to be about a five-pounder came out from under a tangle of submerged limbs and rose to the fly; as I was preparing to set, a dark shadow twice the size of the five-pounder shot out from under a log and inhaled the bug. It all happened in an instant, an instant that I recall as clearly as though it happened yesterday.

I came very close to boating that fish, which no doubt contributes to the heartache of losing it. The hookset was solid, and I was able to steer the bass away from the snags, but it took off for deeper water, and our guide had to row hard to keep pace with the flight.

Once in open water, my confidence grew, and eventually I had the fish near the surface...only yards from the boat. The guide readied the net just as the great fish jumped, and in my dreams, I still hear Dave as it came into view: "My God, that's the biggest smallmouth I've ever seen!"

But not for long. Seeing the net, the fish dove for the bottom, where I felt that unmistakable tremble of leader rubbing against rock. It's a sickening feeling, because every seasoned angler knows what it potentially means, which in this case was the worst. The leader severed, and my prize escaped.

This latest disappointment occurred on Mossy Creek, a narrow, spring-fed run in limestone country known for its elusive, outsized browns. Conditions weren't ideal, with the water low and clear, and the unobstructed sun making it tricky to keep our shadows off the water. Even so, I had landed fish throughout the day...nothing to brag about but enough to suit me.

Then, as the sun eased below the horizon, signaling that we would soon have to reel in and head for home, I tossed a Kreelex into a narrow slot between two rows of aquatic vegetation. The fly scarcely had settled when a long brown submarine appeared, ate, and immediately did a one-eighty.

When a hefty fish turns the instant it takes, the physics align in the fish's favor, especially on 5X tippet. And so it was...snap! and the burly brown disappeared among the weeds. I hadn't done anything wrong. It was just one of those things.

Our guide seemed more disappointed than I was, as he carried on about "the shoulders on that fish, how big it was, and how fish are even larger than they appear in water."

Having been around so much human tragedy, I have a hard time getting too worked up over losing a fish, even when it's a good one. So I didn't say much, but grief was there, or I wouldn't be writing this post.

Maybe it's because of all the sheltering in place and having too much time on my hands. Whatever the reason, I've been doing a little philosophizing lately, including why we anglers get so emotional over a lost fish.

I'm wondering if it has something to do with an unconscious connection to other losses, such as lost opportunities, lost loved ones, lost youth, lost dreams...that sort of thing. Surely, there is something metaphorical going on here, something we project onto those singular moments of piscatorial disappointment, something that stands in for other griefs we carry deep within our souls.

I'm still thinking about that. No conclusions yet. But with three quarters of a century and two joint replacements behind me, I'm philosophizing that I don't have a lot of time left to catch the fish of a lifetime, while sitting here hoping that the next one won't break off.

About the author: Glenn Busch retired to Lynchburg, VA, 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 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.