Whether we’re aware of it or not, I think we all go to the river, at some point in our lives, looking for a sign from heaven. We seek out the river because it’s calming, it’s soothing, it’s a place where, even though we’re not in control of the outcome, we have a larger say in the events, so it grounds us when life feels to be slipping by too quickly.
It’s not that fly fishing itself is a gate to divine communication. Fishing is just that—fishing. Instead, it’s that the simple act of going fishing is often enough to settle our minds and sort through a problem. For those of us who believe in God, it’s often a time when we’re able to slow down enough that we can finally listen to what He’s telling us.
It’s also not necessarily that formal. Part of what keeps drawing us anglers back to the water is the unexpected, and that you never know when an ordinary day of fishing turns into something you’ll never forget. Whether that’s thanks to a large trout, or a startling moment of clarity, doesn’t really matter.
I’ve been juggling my way through America’s wonderful healthcare system the past two weeks, trying to book an appointment with a pediatric ophthalmologist for my four-month-old daughter. We live in the middle of nowhere, and the nearest doctor who could help her is in another state. Despite leaving messages, calling the office daily, and our local pediatrician trying to get their attention, that doctor never called us to set an appointment. Meanwhile, my daughter still needed help, and as a dad who wants to fix every problem, I found myself increasingly angry, frustrated, and no fun to be around.
I booked an appointment, finally, back in our old home of Utah. The day before we left to head down, I took a few hours and went to the local creek, where I hadn’t fished in over a month. Between house projects, the baby, and work, my fishing has been confined to a handful of days.
I wasn’t expecting much. I hoped I’d see a few fish, and maybe catch them on dry flies. There wasn’t a hatch going on when I arrived, so I defaulted to a Chubby Chernobyl up top, with a 20-Incher Stone as the dropper.
To my surprise, the fish attacked both flies eagerly, although they showed a slight favoritism for the Chubby. I picked my way through the pocket water, plucking fish from almost every spot, and nice ones at that. The creek, like everyone’s home water, has its own lunkers, but all these fish were on the larger side. Nothing to write home about, still, but fish that put a bend in the rod and made me work to get them in the net.
The action was fast and furious, and before I knew it, I was a few holes down from where I’d parked the truck. I had a grin on my face that I couldn’t wipe, and for the first time in two weeks, I felt relaxed.
That’s when I had my own moment of clarity—a sign from heaven. Between the towering cliffs and the smooth babble of the creek, I took a moment to appreciate the lack of anxiety, the absence of constant worry. My daughter wasn’t magically healed; I still had to make an eight-hour drive to get her into the right doctor, and who knew how much it’d cost us?
But in that simple moment between casts, it all felt manageable.
If that’s not a miracle, I don’t know what is.