When it rains, it pours

Last month, I wrote about the ‘dry spells’ that are frequently encountered by anglers, due to their intense and idiosyncratic fixations with fish. If Albert Einstein had been an angler, he might have pointed out that dry spells were subject to relativity, and that the existence of a drought also proved the existence of floods.

By all accounts, Einstein’s idiosyncrasies were at an elite level, which leads me to believe that he’d have been a great angler, in addition to theoretical physicist. But, had this been the case, we might be deprived of his theory of relativity, as no truly dedicated angler can ignore fish for very long. Theoretical physics and philosophy aside, persistent anglers know that just a single outing can change their fortunes entirely, and make lemonade out of lemons in an emphatic way.

Naturally, my writing is a reflection of my life at the moment that my pen meets paper. As I progress clumsily in angling and outdoorsmanship, I simply try to share and record whatever lessons and experiences accumulate as byproducts of this activity. At the beginning of the 2021 spring fishing season, my expectations were ambitious—to put it generously. In retrospect, my mistake is clear, and my disappointment with tough fishing and a lack of early success is the unmistakable result. Looking back, I also see in myself symptoms of what Myles Nolte and Joe Cermele refer to on their fishing podcast as ‘degenerate angler’ syndrome. I’m actually comfortable referring to myself in this way, and find it easy to laugh it off.

Now, as you might have already guessed, my spring fishing drought was destined to end in late April. Even the opening weekend of trout season proved difficult this year, due to suboptimal fishing conditions, and hoards of anglers with an abundance of free time and no way to access their ‘usual’ fishing spots, during yet another pandemic lockdown. After two discouraging days of mediocre fishing, I found myself seriously considering the option to cut my losses and save ‘brownie points’ for the upcoming warm water season. Thankfully, a degenerate angler is also a stubborn angler.

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve slogged half-heartedly to go fishing out of a feeling of obligation, and to avoid missing out, only to return hours later in a state of elated shock over the brilliant fishing that ensued against all odds. With some reluctance, I dragged myself to the river under these very circumstances on April 28th, and proceeded to hook steelhead in all but one of the runs that I fished that afternoon. Days like this are literally life-changing for the degenerate angler, and they change the course of entire fishing seasons which enter as lambs, and exit like lions.

I’ve come to believe that angling is addictive for the same reason that slot machines are: our incentivereward systems leave us hopelessly and unconsciously partial to intermittent reinforcement. Support for this idea comes from the numerous anglers who exhibit classic symptoms of addiction, though in a setting that is infinitely more rewarding than the casino. We torment ourselves, and sometimes even those who are close to us, and then— perhaps selfishly—consume the fruits of our labour in complete isolation, alone on a lake or river bank with the smell of fish slime on our hands.

Ultimately, I can appreciate dry spells, just as I can appreciate an angler who seems hellbent on pursuing everything but his or her supposed ‘responsibilities.’ Although it’s sometimes obscured during prolonged periods of drought, I see great beauty in imperfection and strife. And, when it rains, it pours.

As long as there is a looming possibility of encountering an old, big steelhead, each new day of fishing will feel like a new trip to the casino.