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Friday, October 24, 2014

Fishing as a Metaphor




Fishing and the metaphor

There lying ghost-like in the shallow water was the remains of a King Salmon. It’s head was not unlike the human skulls seen displayed and staring in religious shrines around the world. Its mouth was agape and eyes fading away in a distant stare, still seeming to look, but hollow and non-moving. The other skeletal remains were twisted, worn, and fast going back to the watery soil much like the bed of leaves it rested in. A metaphor for all of life.

It was the way of the King Salmon, a genetic scheme to venture out in to the fresh water seas of Lake Michigan, grow fat on the wealth of smaller fish, then in one final run, head up its home river for a thrilling week of frolic with other members of the tribe---all with the intention of laying the groundwork for another generation King Salmon. Once the big week was over, it would be a slow death in the shallow water there in the home ground, their own place of birth. The aging giant fish seem to just fall apart with their once silvery skin turning dark with decay even as they still cruised the ripples and went through the motions of mating. It was futile at that point, but locked in genetic intentions.

I stood quietly and studied with wondering thoughts the departed fish, all the while realizing I was getting old, maybe not that old, but my hair is gray and my skin is thin and discolored. Still, it didn’t seem like a bad way to go even though humans don’t normally strive to swim  up stream for a big whoop-de-do and then go gills to the wind. After a brief contemplation, I straighten myself up, flexed a few muscles, adjusted my new cap and decided to embrace another fine day on the stream----admittedly, the swimming and flopping up stream thing did have appeal---metaphorically speaking.

Briefly I reflected on a story I had heard from a friend, probably the same friend, Dennis, whom I was fishing with on this very day. It seemed a couple of chaps had been plying for Steelhead on the Brule River in northern Wisconsin and one of them fell in the water and disappeared floating down the river in a very inappropriate position, face down. Other fishermen along the stream noticed the individual going by but were unable to attend to him and kept fishing not knowing what else to do, as the individual was much in the position of the King Salmon. It was later learned the departed angler had suffered an unfortunate heart attack. The paper recorded he had died doing what he loved---mainly being on a beautiful flowing stream.

It would seem fishing is like that, a metaphor for the rich texture of life that we have been afforded here on the whispering streams and rivers.

I remember an incident in Ontario back in the sixties while fishing for pike with my then new bride. Even though we were being consumed by black flies, I had been catching numerous Northern Pike with nothing more than a Dare Devil, almost on every cast. The fish were just everywhere. On each retrieval the shining lure was surrounded by naïve, heavily-toothed torpedoes who wanted nothing more than smack the rather obnoxious bait. I was sure Ann was impressed with my prowess and probably marveled at the unbelievable abundant fish life in this cold Canadian lake.

In an act of shared participation, at the moment of hooking a smallish pike, I handed her the casting rod and encouraged her to reel it in. In great glee she hauled away with the wonder of a child. The fish flopped on the surface, jumped and made a great show of it. Then, without warning a giant Pike rocketed up from the depths and latched on to its own brethren in its moment of struggle, and right then and there began to swallow it whole. Talk about a metaphor. We did release the fish, or fishes, the larger one now protruding the smaller much like Groucho Marx mouthing a cigar.

Yesterday, the day wore on and while the wind was light and the river clear, not a single fish approached our flies, not one. I did see a delicate but wounded Blue Winged Teal scurry around in the shallows of a backwater. It looked at me with frightened eyes knowing it could not fly. I walked away hoping in the coming winter it might find open water and live out the season to breed again.

We fished hard, we tried in our best form to find the Steelhead, or a fat Brown Trout but not once could we make contact. Other fishermen said they had caught a few and another related a story of catching a fifteen pound Brown, one all filled with eggs. He released it. And so the metaphors move on.  Maybe this is why I fish.