A Weekend in Rhythm

AKA- The Journey to Excellence.

After my near fishless outing Monday, I'm texting Pablo while driving girls to volleyball practice (a misdemeanor in NC as of January 1st- texting, not volleyball). "I want to be a great fisherman" Doubtless this comment prompted a snort and chuckle from the Pab, watching snow melt and perusing unneeded gear on-line while waiting for his future in 4-6 weeks. He couldn't take it and rose to the offering with a phone call.

Here I articulate my mid trout-life crisis: I'm good at a lot of things in life, but I've never had the mindset and drive to be really great at anything. And of all things non-celestial, the thing I love the best on this earth is fishing. So it follows, if I'm going to climb the mountain of temporal excellence in the remaining years of my mortal sojourn, it oughta be on the river. With 15 years of fly fishing under my belt, I am still a late bloomer- I didn't spend my early years as a trout bum or guiding in Alaska- but I can make a good run for the next 30 years.

So Pab and I discussed in laughable (especially to Morgan who overheard the conversation) detail the mental and emotional demands of fly fishing excellence. Obviously this quest must be with in the bounds of father Adams curse (aka still have to earn a living), and I have no interest in anything competitive (competitive fishing is an absolute oxymoron) or a braggy exotic travel log. My quest for excellence is within; focused mind, stilled emotions, peaceful heart, precision cast- the rhythm of the river.

Fortunately instead of ruminating on the concept, I was back on the creek the next day. In the spirit of taking our writing to the next level, I'll hoard the details, that's for the fish journal, but I found the groove. Granted, these are hatchery fish, they are plentiful, but never the less, I found the rhythm of the stream and became the ultimate predator- although a meek and gentle one, expressing my gratitude to the fish gods with every release.

The average fisherman would've called it good and spent Saturday on the numerous household chores, but the questing piscator tied up flies on Friday night and rethought his strategies. Then, in the midst of the weekend crowds, stripped streamers to the delight of girthy rainbows in deep over worked pools and found the brookies in the current with the deft swing of tiny flash backs riding behind big bead heads. With the sun still shining, but the rhythm indicating impending gluttony, eased out of the water with a smile and a nod to the tail of the last trout and eased back to civilization with no clear fin count or desire to gloat, but the simple humility and gratitude for another step on the inner quest for constant rhythm.