You Wouldn't Understand Me If I Told You

Untold Secrets of an Angler's Heart

You wouldn’t understand me if I told you that the Sulphur hatch is happening any day now and that the latin name for these bugs is Ephemerella which I prefer that to the rather punctual Pale Evening Dun because it so perfectly captures their delicate fleeting nature or if I explained that the hatch is actually two hatches and that in the stretch of the river that I love to fish especially on warm summer evenings when the water forms a light mist as the sun sets the Ephemerella Invarias hatch before the Dorotheas do and that they’re two slightly different sizes and colors and the fish can tell the difference from ten feet away and two feet under. You wouldn’t understand me if I told you that I spent months perfecting a dubbing blend to match the ripe apricot color of the Dortheas and a month more tying size 18 cripples because I’ve learned that the trout prefer them and more often than not won’t take an upright wing when the river is clear and low and warm. And you wouldn’t understand me when I tell you that I think Ephemerella is a lovely name for a little girl and that if I had one I’d let her pick flies from my box and that when she did she’d look up at me with her big blue eyes and smile. 

You wouldn’t understand me if I told you that I’ve been experimenting with different leader builds for the better part of three seasons because I got tired of spending $29 for a three pack when you can buy spools of monofilament for a tenth of the cost at the hardware store two towns over because the owner is an angler too and he builds his own leaders and likes knowing he can save an additional 20% when he buys them wholesale or that I only found this out when I went to run errands that Saturday with the dog after our fight and that while stopped at the wobbly display rack of spools the owner saw the fly stuck in my cap and struck up a conversation that ended up with him drawing a crude map to one of his favorite spots on the back of a piece of receipt paper. You wouldn’t understand me if I told you that now I drive two towns over to buy whatever we need for the house because I get to chat with him about the fishing and if the bill is over forty dollars he throws in a homemade dog treat that he pulls from the big glass jar on the counter that his wife fills whenever it gets empty which is rare but she does it anyway because she wants all dogs including ours to have healthy treats and I only know this because I drive two towns over to buy spools of monofilament as a little treat to myself for doing house chores on Saturdays. 

You wouldn’t understand me if I told you that I used to dream of owning a Corvette or an air-cooled Porsche or more realistically a Datsun or an MG but now that seems silly and instead I want an old Ford pickup with a bench seat and faded paint so that when I drive down the narrow dirt roads to the river with the windows open and the radio on and the branches of the trees heavy with late summer leaves run their fingernails down the sides the paint doesn’t show it. You wouldn’t understand me when I tell you that there’s a certain era of trucks that had good metal tailgates that clunk down when you release the latch, are sturdy, and always at the perfect height for sitting and watching the water or the stars or just the cars going by the way you used to when you were a kid and that that one thing was more important than any safety feature because I know I’m only going to drive it to the river or the campsite or to Nick’s house to help him move something that he wishes he didn’t need help with but does so I go and bring an extra rod for him and afterwards we drop the tailgate and smoke a joint and reminisce about being kids before cellphones and the internet and maybe split a beer that’s a little too warm but we drink it anyway because we’re thirsty and the tailgate is down and that’s what you do on late summer evenings after fishing. 

You wouldn’t understand me if I told you that there’s a single pair of socks that they don’t make anymore that are one hundred percent wool that I always wear on the first day of any fishing trip out of habit or superstition or nostalgia and that every time I pack them I run my fingers over the worn down spots and think about all the rivers they’ve stepped in and wonder how many more seasons they’ll last and realize that for whatever reason they’re this essential piece of gear that has become synonymous with life and fishing and that when they finally wear through I’ll either have to find a suitable replacement or try to mend them and that neither option feels good and perhaps that’s what it really means to be human. 

You wouldn’t understand me if I told you that I’ve reached a point in my life where I don’t care about what other people think or what’s fashionable or politics because those things come and go and I’d rather research fly patterns or the optimal spacing for guides on a 10-foot fast action rod or the dynamics of a cast when the wind is coming from behind at 10 miles per hour and a little to the side because all of these things feel more important somehow and that maybe it’s okay to be a nobody and quit work early and fish for cookie cutters under the railroad trestle on weekday evenings because even an hour of twilight fishing is more reality than you can bear to take in most days or else you’ll start to go mad with the desire to disappear completely into the wilderness with your books and maybe the dog and you too if you were up for it because life is so damn short and what’s the damn point of being healthy and fit if we aren’t going to hike down into valleys and wade all day and hike back out just to do it all over again the next day and the next and the next if for no other reason than to tell our grandkids that we never took a tree or and stream or trout for granted while they were still a wild wonder to behold?

You wouldn’t understand me if I told you that I can feel a bad cast coming because the rod and the line are an extension of my body and when I fall off the plane because I’m tired or just lazy I know it in my bones like the old timers do when they talk about weather or illness or marriages or stray dogs, or that a good cast feels like nothing else and that even if all the fish were dead I’d still go fishing just to feel connected to this thing that I love so much without ever having to say I love you and that some time ago it dawned on me that one day I’ll make my last cast and might not know it and so I try to make every one beautiful even if doesn’t catch a fish because this is a kind of art too and I can’t abide the thought of going out on a trailing loop. You wouldn’t understand me if I told you that I believe that hell is a trout stream where every cast gets a rise and that maybe this life is heaven because it’s got hope and joy and surprise and delight and all the things that make it a pursuit and fill me with purpose or that heaven and hell are another way of explaining that I’m just a speck of dust and the whole show at the same time and that perhaps the point, if there is a point at all, is that you can discover a lot about the universe and your place in it with just nine feet of rod and forty feet line. 

And you wouldn’t understand me if I told you that I keep all this from you because I worry that you’ll think I’m crazy or worse yet discover the truth and fall out of love or at least fall silently distant in that way you do when you are deciding if loving me is still worth the headache and because telling you is to admit to having this other life and though it’s not like our love I worry you’ll think it is and I’ll have to choose and either way I’ll never be able to forgive myself when all I had to do was not spill the beans. And you wouldn’t understand me if I told you that I might never tell you because deep down I know this is one last beautiful unbroken thing in my life and if it were lost I’d go with it and then we’d be nowhere good and I might not make it back this time so better off just playing it safe when you ask:

“What are you thinking about, dear?” 

“Nothing, my love,” I’ll say, “nothing at all.” 

Other Posts You Might Like: