Ten years ago, we used to leave the house at 3 a.m. and drive nearly five hours, just to get on the water at 8 a.m. We’d fish until 8 or 9 p.m., then hit the road for the five hour drive back home. Usually, by the time I unloaded gear, wound down, and finally got into bed, it’d be 3 a.m. again. A full 24-hour run with plenty of time spent in the truck, but just enough time on the water to make all the driving feel worth it.
We called those suicide days, and there was a tight group of us who’d join in on the regular. We all worked “normal” jobs, and between family commitments and everything else in life, we usually only had one full day per week to spend on the water. We figured we were just making the most of it; my friends’ wives said we were insane. I think we were both a bit right.
I just got back from a trip to Florida, then back-to-back excursions to the high country. These were all-day affairs, with little time for food, rest, or relaxation. And on each trip, somewhere around 2 or 3 p.m., I’d get hit by a wave of exhaustion, look around, and think, alright, I could go for a nap, some food, and we can come back and hit the evening bite.
10 years ago, I never would have thought that way. Any time not on the water was time wasted, and if you weren’t feverishly casting, hiking to better-looking water, or re-rigging, your dedication and worth as an angler was in serious doubt. Alright, maybe not serious doubt, but it did start to make you wonder why you bothered getting up at 3 a.m. if you weren’t going to go all-out while you had the chance.
It was the most recent trip when I took a seat on a log, looked around, and drained the last of my cold water, that I started reflecting on how much my relationship with fishing has changed over the past decade. I’ve changed, too. I got married, moved to Wyoming, changed careers, and my wife and I welcomed a baby girl and two dogs to the family.
But I was always the stubborn kid who resolutely refused the idea that anything would change my time on the water. I wouldn’t end up like my buddies, stuck at dance recitals instead of fishing the salmonfly hatch. I certainly wouldn’t ever buy a minivan.
So what gives? Why am I so content now to spend less time on the water? That’s been the hardest thing to understand. I still have a need to fish, to stand in a moving river and lose myself in something pointless – for a few hours, instead of days at a time. Maybe I’m getting more efficient at using my time on the water to get a mental reset?
Or, and this is far more likely – things have just changed. And that’s fine.
I’ve realized over the past year or so, as my wife and I spent a month in the NICU with our daughter, then countless hours chasing specialists for follow-up appointments across three states, that the need to be on the water so much has slowly faded. It’s still there, it’s still a part of who I am. But it’s not the driving force behind my existence.
I still get grumpy if I don’t fish once or twice a week. Just yesterday, my wife asked me to go fishing for a few hours, because I was driving her nuts at home. I happily obliged, but it got me thinking again – am I somehow less of an angler because I’m content with just catching a few fish and going home?
That’s what’s so great about fly fishing. It’s not something that has to be done a certain way or practiced according to a rigid set of rules. It’s whatever you need it to be, and it can give or take from your life in equal measure. Right now, it looks like I’m in a place where I need a bit less than I did 10 years ago.
And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.