A NECESSARY PASSION
I have read many accounts of why people do what they do. Robert Traver, in his eloquent, Testament of a Fisherman, gave several reasons why he fished, ranging from liking the places where trout are found, [trout don’t live in ugly places] to articulating the belief that, while fishing is not “so terribly important, but because many of the concerns of men are equally unimportant – and not nearly so much fun.” While I agree wholeheartedly with Mr. Travers’ summation, [he was, after all, a noted jurist], I conclude that he left out one element, and that is passion.
Passion is defined as an “intense or overpowering emotion, a strong liking or enthusiasm for a subject or activity.” Passion is often viewed in a negative light because unbridled passion is at the heart of many of the things that plague modern man, however, properly understood and directed passion is the thing that gives life meaning.
While fishing, especially fly-fishing, have many attractions its passion for the sport that separates the casual angler from the sold out addict. This passion is not just any passion, but I call it a necessary passion.
What does this “necessary passion” look like? Well, I can give several illustrations.
Thirty-five plus years ago, when I lived in Michigan, the closest quality trout water was the Au Sable River, approximately 200 miles from my home just north of Detroit. Trout season opened the last Saturday in April and ended the last of September. It’s a long time from September 30th until the last Saturday in April, so when the trout season was open I was there every weekend. Since I worked 5 days each week and did not get off work until 3 PM on Friday that meant a 3 hour drive each Friday afternoon and a 3 hour drive home on Sunday night so that I could make it to work on Monday. If I drove like a man possessed I could get to the camp ground, get the trailer set up, and be on the stream in time to fish the evening rise. In those days I bought a new vehicle every three years, and most of the miles on the odometer were the results of those weekly treks to the Au Sable.
In 1971 I drove, non-stop, from Michigan to the Henry’s Fork of the Snake in Idaho for ten days of fly fishing. That calculates out to about 1800 miles of driving. [I was MUCH YOUNGER] The next ten days were spent fishing almost every waking moment, Henry’s Fork, the Madison, Firehole, Nelson’s Spring Creek, just to name a few. For an addict it just whetted my appetite for more. In the summer of 1972 I was back, again in the summer of 73, and by the summer of 1974 I was living on the banks of the Yellowstone River just 50 miles North of Yellowstone National Park!
I have stood in an icy cold stream in a blinding snowstorm casting flies to unseen fish, braved downpours of rain, hail, baking heat and wind for the chance to cast a fly in a fishy-looking place. I have traveled miles in the dark to arrive at just the right time to fish a certain hatch, and stayed late, long after common sense would dictate is wise, to fish an elusive spinner fall.
What drives this passion? It’s more than the fish, more than the place, and more than the fun; it’s a part of the total life experience, a necessity that grounds and solidifies one’s existence. It drives you, yet it calms and sooths the soul in a way that nothing else can. It brings a sense of wonder, that, when combined with a sense of knowing brings a sublime contentment that no other activity can afford. It’s a necessary passion, as necessary as food and drink; not an adjunct to my daily life, but an indispensible extension of life itself.