Gone Fishin'

It is beautiful here. Sparkling, golden, ringed with green, sun-dappled, hot as hot. I'm standing in the Caney Fork River in Tennessee. The very cold waters rush by my ankles, thighs and hips in such a way as to feel like I'm submerged in wildly whirling and fizzling soda water tickling my skin and chilling my bones. I've never felt anything quite like it as the powers-that-be release more water gently through the dam this late-June morning.

For the first time in my life I catch out of the corner of my eyes the silvery flashes of trout: browns and rainbows. I gasp with exhilaration...I've seen them!

I'm here to fish and to paddle my way from below the dam to the take-out, and I'm savoring every moment of the natural beauty, trying to focus and regain control over my thoughts which have been torn away since I returned from Spain. I'm constantly aware of the bobbing & turning of brightly colored kayaks around my own, like so many floating crayons strewn into the river by the hand of a child playing on the muddy, sandy banks.

It is beautiful here.

Mist and fog rolled and lingered just above the water last night as I watched, breathless, the deepening silhouettes against peach-pink sky and craggy trees. My friend held his line in one hand, rod in the other, motionless as I traced his dark outline with my eyes and snapped a photo, then another. The scene here today is different, changed. Alive. There remains mystery on the river today but of a different sort. The trees hold no secrets this morning- only the water does. It is deep green and thick with wonder, the excitement of the chase, and nourishment- and the meeting of the three.

The Caney is dotted with men in waders, only their hips to head visible, all strung between flickering lines and flapping fish. Some have handsome hats with chin strings, others baseball caps, but all heads are tipped slightly chin-down toward the water. Some flash their wide smiles at me and my friends floating by and offer kind words and tips, others grumble, still others indicate where we should go and blame us for their tangled lines and poor luck.

I make my way downriver in a jumble of tangled thoughts, moments of peace, muscle flexion, exhilaration, resting. Sweat pouring down my back, my hands grip my paddle then exchange it for rod and reel, slippery yellow powerbait or the corn floating in the little cup-holder. I take in as much of the beauty of water and sky as I can. I power through, then rest. I catch up with my friends, then let them float ahead. I can't decide; I am mixed. I find myself as often as I see the flash of the trout before it disappears out of view. I'm fine with this. I know I am fully here, and that's all that matters.

I try casting into riffles, runs, and pools, with no more luck in one than the other. Many bite, some bend my rod as I reel in, but none hangs on long enough for the #6 hook to embed. I repeat my anthem all day long: "AH!!-aaaoooohh."

As the sun beats down I'm seeing a few things more clearly. I am addicted to this new activity, fishing. I'm addicted to the thrill of reeling in bluegill after bluegill, and now the attempt at trout. I am addicted to the sensation of nibbles on my line, the subtle tug, the connection between nerve endings, woman and fish. I seek the Salvelinus fontinalis, the species grouping for any trout I might found in the eastern U.S. (so says genetic testing). For the moment, I choose to discount the Scottish study concluding that rainbow trout feel pain (it is hotly debated, anyway). For now, my quest is not merely for the thrill or for the rich aroma of my dinner over the fire, but for answers:

How long do you let one fish nibble away and play at your precious bait, potentially sucking it off your line leaving you empty-handed and worn? When do I cut and run?

How can I distinguish between kelp and a keeper before it rises to the surface?

What bait is best? What color? Type?

With what body motion, wrist flick, hip twist am I most likely to reel in a trout?

How much muscle do I use? Does this fish want gentle subtlety or a hearty tug?

Does sweet-talking help in any way?

(Sound familiar?)

Should I go after the plethora of troutling because they're there, or wait it out to try for the Big Brown in deeper waters?

I am quiet, and mark my observations. Moment by moment the water plays tricks on me, mimicking the precise sensation of a nibbing trout as the current drags the sinker along the bottom and plays catch-and-release with the kelp. And then something bites- tears fast and furious at my hook- and in an instant is gone, disappointed with my measly bait, only to leave me wondering just how big and beautiful it was, and what my friends would've said had I muscled it up to reel it in. Did I not have what it takes for that one?

And karma seems to have little to do with success on the river; the guy who behaved so badly at camp last night has caught a stringer-full today. Woman keeps her dignity but no fish.

My friend turns to me and says, "This one just bit the whole hook, line and sinker down to its belly!" He has dinner. That fish wanted the bait so badly, liked what it saw so much, that it went in fully committed the first time- no doubts, no question, and got the bait. You could say, despite the obvious implication of an impending fish fry, that they both won.

Now it must be obvious where I'm going with this. I'm a girl who loves connection, as you know: connection to people, the feel of my nose against the roses in my garden, connection of my hands to my food, and to that subtle nibble on my fishing line extending from my fingertips through my forearms. I even love to hold the freshly-caught fish. But while I so enjoy the gentle sensation of a first touch or initial nudge, I am a bigger fan of the thrill of the catch- whether it be face to face time with friends, or capturing the attraction and love of a special person.

They say patience makes a great fisherman, patience brings you dinner. At least that's what they were telling me on the Caney today. So I suppose my answer is not in how to dress a hook, what color bait to sport, or my motion, but in what I'm gonna do with all that time on my hands while I wait.

I'll let you know. Share