I am not a fly fisherman.
At least not a good one.
I am not even getting the name right. Angler. That’s what they call themselves.
My friend Tanner, however, is an angler. Which of course is all well and good; someone can get proficient at just about anything given enough time and energy, even fishing. But Tanner is a proper, Capital A. Angler. The Angler. He was born to fish. He can’t imagine life without it. Fishing speaks to him in a way that I don’t fully understand. Truth be told, I don’t think he fully understands it either. He doesn’t need to. Understanding isn’t required. Just patience (my God, so much patience), technique, some gear, and an urge to step out into the nature. For him, being out on the water, rod and reel in hand, the perfect whip of the line back and forth, the slight tug when an elusive rainbow trout nibbles at the fly, that feeling? Well it doesn’t get much better than that. Not for me, not for anyone. But especially not Tanner.
“He treats angling with great reverence, it’s an honor for him to be out here. He doesn’t take that honor lightly. ”
Yeah, I am no angler. But today Tanner is trying to rectify that. He’s out teaching Sam, Nic and me the finer points of fly fishing. Trying to impart as much knowledge as possible to us before we head to Alaska on a fishing trip for Nick’s Bachelor Party on the Kenai. We are, admittedly, a little late on the uptake, the Alaska trip is mere days away. But with Tanner as a teacher, luck just might be on our side. I honestly don’t know what he is more excited about: the fishing itself or teaching others how to fish. I can tell right away this isn’t just some hobby for him. It’s a lifetime of acquired knowledge, not something you just learn in a weekend. Fly fishing is never really mastered, he tells us. Always something new to learn. He treats angling with great reverence, it’s an honor for him to be out here. He doesn’t take that honor lightly.
Today’s location: The Middle Provo River. It’s a beautiful stretch of water that starts in the Uinta Mountains east of Salt Lake City and eventually makes its way to Utah Lake, dams and reservoirs notwithstanding. We drive about an hour outside of Salt Lake to find our spot in the mountain valleys the river calls home. After some initial parking lot lessons on proper casting technique (Tanner makes an excellent, extremely patient coach), we slip into our waders and at least start to look like we belong on the water.
The fish don’t seem to care for me much…
“Make sure you look for any trash to pick up. Leave the river better than you found it and the fishing gods reward you”, he says without any hint that he is joking. Serious business, fishing is. I immediately start scanning for any trash I can find that might buoy my chances.
Sure, yes, I have fished before. I know how to tie a fisherman’s knot. Sort of. I know how to cast. I have successfully cooked and eaten a fish I’ve caught. But feeding oneself, merely keeping your body supplied with calories, does not an angler make. No, no. For the angler the act of fishing is an act of living. They are the same, or near as can be. Zen 101 (with a side of fly fishing) with Professor Tanner, that would be a more accurate description of today’s class.
“Fish are smart”, Tanner tells us with an unmistakable tone of respect. “They only want to eat what they know they can. Don’t waste energy aimlessly. They sit behind rocks and in slips where the water moves slowly to conserve energy. As water passes by the rock or the hole they lounge in it also brings food swept up in currents. Food, by the way, is bugs. And other fish, sure”.
But here with Tanner today it’s a lot of bugs. (We started this adventure by pulling up rocks to see what kinds of bugs and larvae are active lately so we can mirror them with the flys). So the fish sit there in the still water behind the rock next to the current bringing them food and dart out quickly to snatch a wayward bug that passes by. Or they rise to the surface at certain times of day when the bugs who take to flying also take to the water. Quite the sight to behold, a lake or stream full of rising trout. To a true angler, to Tanner, perhaps no finer sight exists.
When Tanner is out on the water it’s all grace and nirvana. A trance. A dance with the water and fish. It’s not subsistence he is after, he doesn’t even keep the damn things when he reels them in. Catch and release, for the fish and the human. Each catch seems to let Tanner release some of life’s stresses out, emotional riverside renewal. When I see him out there I see someone perfectly in tune with the water, the rock in the riverbed, the bugs, the breeze, the silt. The goal isn’t so much to land a fish to eat, but to commune with the water. Anglers need to be patient and peaceful enough to disappear entirely. To really fly fish is to be invisible in the water. He wants to immerse himself in it. “Cover water”, he tells me, as I strike out in the same spot over and over and over again. He can tell I am getting impatient. “Cover water, branch out, move up and down the stream, find the seams”. He might as well say let the water cover you. He wants to be one with it. Disappear entirely.
“Leave the river better than you found it and the fishing gods reward you”
Almost.
The rod and the reel, they don’t disappear. The rest, yes, that is exactly what Tanner wants to happen, himself included. Leaving no trace of himself below or above the water, sending no alarm out to the swimming targets. The fish, smart as they are, none the wiser to his presence. Keeping on keeping on, as they are wont to do, waiting for the next little meal to appear. Which is exactly what Tanner wants to accomplish.
You could call it a bait and switch, if you are crude enough for a bad pun (and this writer is). Tanner calls it nature, and I tend to agree with him. The fly on the water or just under it posing as food. Any unnatural motion is a giveaway and the fish won’t bite. But a tug on the line and flick of the wrist, and there it is: The perfect catch, he has a fish on the line, reeling it in, fighting a primal fight, pure and honest, it means that he did it perfectly. He became invisible. It means he became as much a part of the river as the fish and the rock and the breeze and the bugs, even for a moment. Only ever for a moment.
Apart from everything that makes him Tanner. Connected to a part of a natural order.
Fly fishing seems to blur the separation between humans and the natural world. Dissolves it, really. And once that breakdown gets its hook in you, there is no going back. You want more of it, you want to cast forever across the river and ride that seam between realities for as long as possible. Let life and worries and bullshit drift past you as easily as leaves in a stream. In the water. A part of something moving around and through you.
And for the briefest of moments, you are just with it.
Yeah, I am still not an angler. But Tanner certainly is. And now I want to be too.
Originally Written July 2021
Photos courtesy of Fiona Foster