When I look at this mount, this fish up on my wall. Various contradicting emotions come to mind. Thoughts and feelings of pride, guilt, happiness and sadness. The nostalgic memoirs of a childhood come to life. A feeling of pride and excitement, a lingering emotion from a young boy long ago. For be it the first trout of size, a brute, a bow, a "wall hanger" I had ever caught. A childhood graced by the adventures of fishing and trout derby's (which one almost looked more forward to every year than their own birthday) every spring. Year in and year out this boy as he grew watched his family, his friends one by one successfully achieve the ultimate goal of a fisherboy hooking up and landing one of these beautiful stream trophies. Not in dismay nor jealousy, but in the admiration and dream of one day himself being the lucky lad whose powerbait ball or glob of worms might be accepting by the king of the stream and be honored to experience the fight of a lifetime on a simple spring creek. This boy still lives within me and a part of me will always still feel "giddy" and have a found memory of my fish up on the wall.
Now to the reality of it. Throughout the years I have grown emotionally, spiritually, and well literally. I have now become a fly fisherman, I have developed thoughts and feelings throughout my new outlook on the sport that makes the above text a sinful story in the eyes of fly fishing scholars. For if one looks at the black and white, the reality of the situation. There should be no honor in it. No sense of accomplishment, no sense of happiness should exist especially in the end result of a dead trout. For the stream was small, deep pools holding as many as up to fifty trout at a time. One could see the brutes, bloated breeders spent at the hatchery and expelled to the fate of the dinner plate or as the one that I had caught with so many others, a trophy on the wall. One could in parts simple step across the stream without any fear of getting wet. There was no adventure, no journey to take to reveal the hiding place of the fish. In hindsight one could describe the whole matter as a complete mess! A congested crowd of families, fathers, and children lining the banks thicker than the slight fog floating along the surface of the stream in the early morning light. At the sound of a whistle, hundreds of tossed lines flung in the same direction. Like an exploding spiderweb which usually ended in the same literal description. Through tangled lines if a trout was caught it usually ended in a child's tears. For the fish that rightfully be hooked on their line be stolen from an adversary on the opposite side of the bank. And all this ended in hundreds of murdered fish, trout flopping along the bank. Or hanging by the dozens on stringers, struggling for their life's breath.
Now as the new fly fisherman I am, this saddens me greatly. But as I said I have grown in many ways. And I'm smart enough now to see, admire, and respect the reality within the reality of it.
For these trout were solely raised for this purpose. They would never be smart enough nor physically tolerable enough to survive within the elements or along side the predators within a natural stream. The brutes were spent after years of the spawn and were most likely going to pass within the following season. So if these fish could be used for happiness to bring a smile across the face and the eyes of a child that would solely be enough. But possibly, as it did in me, if it inspired/instilled the love of trout and all the essence of fishing, stream conservation, and preservation of these aspects to protect these virtues for future generations, then it was worth all the effort involved. It became/was a tradition that many families in the area looked forward to year after year. And brought those families as well as the community together with faith, love and fishing rods in hand. And definitely most important to me it was an act of a fathers love. All the shenanigans and improper fishing ethics had its place in the heart and soul of a child, as it did for me. I didn't see it as any of the things at that age, wisdom and a sense of fishing ethics translates the experience to now. I simply saw it as an act of my fathers love for me. As well as many other sons and daughters did within the area. It became a tradition, an exciting feeling the night before. Like waking up Christmas mourning and running downstairs to view countless presents under the stream. One hurried holding their fathers hand to the edge of the bank to view a stream full of trout. These acts of a fathers love made me who I am today. They instilled the basis from which I've built on to make this modern day naturalist, conservationist, catch and release fly fisherman that I am today. Those actions and life lessons I will forever carry with me. And I'm reminded of them when I see my trout up on the wall that will forever be in my heart.
No comments:
Post a Comment