When I went to Colorado with my family a few summers ago and tried fly fishing for the first time, I fell in love with it. The grace and the skill and the movement involved all spoke to me in a way that fishing with bait doesn't. I came back to Minnesota and, a few months later, received my first fly rod for Christmas, a six weight perfect for bluegill and crappie. I bought an eight weight at Cabela's for pike and bass and couldn't wait to catch some bigger fish on the fly rod.
But fly fishing is tricky to pick up at first, and I struggled. My cast still seldom breaks fifty or sixty feet. I caught small bass about a foot long, and a few snake northerns, but nothing of any size.
Added to the equation was that this past summer was probably the hardest few months of my life. My youngest brother, Nicholas, was severely infected with a fungus and fought for his life for several months. He teetered on the edge and spent a month in intensive care in the children's hospital before recovering. In addition, my father continued a fruitless job search before finding a job... in Michigan. My family moved and I still haven't been to the house that I technically am supposed to call my home now. Finally, I suffered heartbreak in the relationship department. Priorities were misplaced and communication failed and it was one more thing to pile on top. All of this happened as I was preparing to enter college and start my higher education at Bethel University. My relationship with God, much like my relationship with Cosette, started to fall apart and was replaced with anger - anger at Him and anger at the world. If not for my friendships with people like Sonia, Alex and Mya, I don't know how I would have gotten through it.
Needless to say, I didn't get much fishing done that summer. My fly rod was relegated to a corner of the garage as I spent my days on the phone, in the hospital, or snatching time at the house that would quickly become someone else's. But I still found a little time to spend on the lake. When nothing else made me feel better, fishing always could.
There are two types of fishermen - those who enjoy fishing because it's fun, and those who live fishing. I live fishing. It occupies my thoughts of every waking hour. I'm constantly thinking, reading, dreaming of how to improve my fishing knowledge. Most guys know football or basketball - I know fishing. It's just what I do. One of the ways that you can tell the fishermen who live fishing are the ones that keep fishing even when they don't catch anything.
I had a dry spell. The whole summer, I didn't catch a fish on the fly that was bigger than a foot long. Sure, I caught little guys on flies, and I caught sizeable fish on spinning gear, but my fly fishing was marked by many mornings of zero fish. In a way, it represented my failures that I felt burdened by from the summer. I failed in my relationship and was powerless to protect my brother or help my father, failing three of the people I love most in the world. And now, even what I knew best was failing me. My longtime sanctuary was letting me down in much the same way that I had been let down all summer.
Then I came to Bethel University, still struggling with my issues and my new shaken faith in the Lord. But I fell in love with this school - with the people, the environment, the beautiful campus. The lake that you can see from the cafeteria and the weekly nights of worship with thousands of men and women stretching their hands to the Heavens. I realized that life is never as bad as it seems. My brother recovered and my dad got a job. I even go to a college on a lake.
I biked down to Johanna the other day in the early morning with my fly rod in a pack on my back, and fished from shore. It was one of the many beautiful fall days we've been having at Bethel lately: blue sky, crisp air, light breeze and the smell of leaves. My fly, a baitfish imitator, danced out over the water before scurrying in between fallen leaves. I cast for over an hour without a fish before the water humped up behind my fly and my rod bent in a quivering bow.
A few minutes later I pulled a tired largemouth out of the water, a little less than two pounds. Not any monster by any means, but as I looked at that fish, it seemed like a symbol of hope to me. A symbol that despite the dry spells, the luck always returns and it always gets better. As I carefully released the bass back to the lake and watched it swim away, I felt a swell in my spirits. I don't think that it's a coincidence that the fish came to me at this time. I believe that from here, my life is only going to keep getting better. I survived the storm and can look the future with renewed hope.
Many of the people that read this, if they read this far, will be frustrated with me putting so much of my life and my religious beliefs in this post. It's a fishing blog, after all. But part of who I am, part of the whole reason that I even have a fishing blog, is that fishing is inextricably connected to my person and my life, and it is impossible to separate. Fishing has given me some of my most exciting moments and my most peaceful moments, my most challenging and my easiest, my most relaxed moments and my biggest andrenaline rushes. Most of my talking to God has been done on a lake. That's part of why I am pursuing a major in environmental science - I love this world of God's and believe that it is part of my responsibility and calling to help preserve it.
I caught another mediocre largemouth that day at Johanna, and another tonight at Valentine that was bigger, about 16 inches. Pictures are on Facebook under mobile uploads if interested.
No comments:
Post a Comment