Art is Life Interpreted

The intrinsic values of fly fishing and fine art are intertwined to depths unimaginable to the untrained eye. The rhythm of motion in a perfectly thrown cast and the fluid stroke of a brush. The arcing line of a weight-forward fly line and the loading of a well-structured rod blank imitates the weight of paint on the brush as the artist transfers the subtle nuances of color to the canvas. The ethereal colors of the brook trout’s blue halos surrounding the burnt orange spots are reminiscent of a summer sunset on a palette of bluish-purple sky. It is no coincidence that the range of colors offer us proof of a Higher Power’s joy in creating scenes that draw awe and wonder from those of us lucky enough to still be walking on this earth.

My wife, Katie, who is a remarkable artist, spends her days capturing these salutary moments of bliss. It’s no wonder that she has a love of fly fishing. For those of us who are fortunate enough to be blessed with the ability to notice and revel in the beauty of a present moment, fly fishing and art are the essence of natural connection.

Sometimes I sit in the old worn leather chair in her studio and quietly watch her paintings evolve from thought, to spirit, to brush, to canvas. She is able to capture the essence of a feeling in the same way that holding a brook trout in my hand, as its colors sparkle in the sunshine, engages my deepest most spiritual connection to our world.

As we stand in the gurgling stream near our house at sunset, casting colorful flies into the dark blue waters below the frothy white falls, I watch her work her Sage fly rod with the same precision and rhythm that she bestows upon her brush in the studio. The fly line forms a beautiful “U” shaped arc behind her and builds its speed as it whips toward the pool. The fly, an elk hair caddis with a rust colored thorax, reaches the apogee of the arc, then slows down to land gently just below the tail of the froth. The fly spins on the rippling water as if it were alive and begins to drift downstream toward the slower water at the bottom of the pool.

Katie is watching the imitation with the same focus and intensity that exemplifies her work in the studio. The timing is immaculate.

As the voracious fish breaks the surface of the stream, Katie is leaning into the cast to engage the trout the moment that it opens its mouth to swallow the deceiver. The instant that the mouth closes on the fly, Katie lifts her rod swiftly, but not so much that it pulls the fly out of its mouth. The rod bends at the tip and throbs with passion as the dynamic tension of the artist and her subject commune in a moment of metaphysical connection. Two spirits interlocking in a world separated by only water and air.

The fish leaps into the air above, flashing its iridescent orange fins rimmed with white borders. For the moment, these two beings are enmeshed in the dance of life. The eternal struggle of mortality and all its wonder is represented by beauty and nature in this, the pinnacle of the present.

She coaxes the brook trout to her side, tenderly slipping the net under its flanks and raises it above the water. Extracting the fly from the side of the brookie’s mouth with as little discomfort as possible, Katie raises the aquiline wonder to her face and offers it a blessing, then returns the creature to the comfort of its world. For a moment, the brookie seems to pause and reflect on what just happened. 

Was that an angel that just held its body and released it?

The next day, I rise early to go to work and Katie is already in the studio working on a new painting.

I notice the blue halos around the burnt orange spots on the flank of the subject that is being created out of oil and canvas and smile.

His Majesty Falls

I woke up late, exhausted by another week of slogging through the mire as a slave of commerce. My heart and my mind were already in the woods, but my body required extra rest. I’ve never been one to sleep in when it comes to hunting or fishing, but this time was different. My wife had been out riding her horse the day before and told me of a big turkey that flushed out of the field in front of her and flew up into the trees, spooking her and her equine partner. Rousting out of bed at 9:00 – late for a hunting expedition -since all hunters know that peak encounter times occur most often at dawn and dusk – I lazily dressed myself in camo and headed to the woods.

I clucked every 100 yards to see if I could elicit an answer. Nothing. I hiked back into the swamp and set up my decoys to sit and listen. I crawled under a wild tangle of shrubbery and leaned uncomfortably against the base. I let out a loud series of clucks and far off in the distance, I heard him. He gobbled viciously but must have been about a half mile away. I picked up my decoys and packed them into my turkey vest. I hiked through a wet swamp, my feet getting wetter each time a hummock gave way to the water underneath.

Turkey hunting is a fascinating means of dialoguing with an animal. In nature it is the hen that calls out to the tom “where are you?” and the tom will gobble back giving away his location, to which she is obligated to pursue him. In hunting turkey, the goal is to get a tom to do exactly the opposite of what nature has taught him. The hunter has to convince the tom that he is a hen that is ready to breed and is not going to seek him out but begs and pleads with him to come find her. This makes the whole pursuit quite difficult.

This particular bird was on posted property, across a small stream, up a hill and all the way to the end of a long field. I had to call very convincingly to attract him past these obstacles – which by the way, is also against their nature.

I found some dry ground on the edge of the swamp and stopped. I looked at my watch. 11:30. I called again, and knew I had but a half hour to complete my mission. I could feel my heart beating heavily in my chest, blood pulsing through the veins in my arms. For the next half hour, I gave it all I had. I clucked, purred, putted and screamed my romantic desire to the whole forest. Each time, at the end of a monologue, he would vociferously reply that he wanted very badly to meet me. This dance went on for 20 minutes and each time he answered he was a little closer.

I looked at my watch again. 11:55. This game was nearly over, as the closing time each day in May is high noon. Just like the old Westerns, this drama played out with the deadline approaching quickly. Then suddenly he stopped communicating. This meant one thing. He was seeking visual verification of this hot young hen.

Then, behind a fallen pine, I saw the full fan. This was a big bird – monarch of the woods. He strutted back and forth behind the tree when a hen popped out from behind the root ball. She took three steps forward and turned to the fully fanned tom. He took one step toward her. The hen took three more steps forward, putting inquisitively. Again, she turned to him and he took one more step forward. He was now behind the root ball of the fallen pine. I lowered my head to the stock of my shotgun and took a deep breath. I cocked my wrist to one side to look at my watch. Being legal is in my nature. This could play out either way. 11:58. I looked back up at the hen as she took three more steps and turned to the tom to give him the okay that the coast was clear.

His bright red and blue head thrust forward from behind the tree and I placed the bead of my shotgun on him. For one moment, we were hopelessly entwined in the dance of life. He, the monarch, and I the peasant in his kingdom. We joined breaths as I pulled the trigger. The echo of the shotgun bounced off the distant hills in the valley and the king lay still on the forest floor. I looked at my watch. 11:59. I walked over to him and kneeled to pray. “Great Spirit, thank you for presenting me with this beautiful being. I promise to honor his life and share his grace and majesty with those deserving of his glory. 

Thank you, Great Spirit. Thank you, God.”

The walk home was a long one and at one point a tear of remorse and gratitude rolled down my cheek. I let myself feel it track down my cheek to the side of my mouth, where I touched it with my tongue and felt its salty sweetness. This is life and I am a part of all that is.

Opening Day of Trout Season

Even us whacky ice fishermen who love the cold barren environment on the frozen lake, share a certain affinity for the second Saturday of April. Known in some circles as the “Glorious Opening Day of Trout Season”, for many of us it is simply the celebration of swiftly flowing water and the hope of hooking up with nice holdover rainbow. For others it means a trip up to the Willoughby River to watch the spawning steelhead catapulting themselves over the rapids as they swim upstream to spawn. Still, for others, it is the mere camaraderie of sharing a hot cup of French roast coffee from a thermos, talking about the long winter and how many cords of wood we set aflame in our woodstoves. Whatever the reason, whatever the motivation might be, it is indeed a glorious way to embrace the spring.

Hope springs eternal in the heart of an angler. Even though the chance of catching a tired but hungry trout on a deep beaded nymph fly is remote at best, it is the love of the fight that brings us to the streamside.

We will cast all morning long at every possible hidey-hole in the river. Drifting our fly over the rapids and into the tail of a deep pool, there is hope, there are prayers, that maybe, just maybe, we might feel that tug on the rod and be quick enough to set the hook into a big kype-jawed brown. Sometimes, it does happen on the first day – but it is the hope and faith that keep us there in conditions that are not amenable to the salmonids. Frustration does not exist. Persistence and faith are the virtues of the experienced angler.

Much like the book “A River Runs Through It” by Norman McLean, fishing for trout is closer to a religion for some than those who attend church every Sunday. The sheer power of nature as it is reflected in the hydraulic energy of a briskly flowing stream. The rearranging of pools and underwater landscapes can be dramatically altered by one ice jam in a brook way up in the mountains, suddenly releasing its pent-up energy. 

If one is reflective enough to stop and think “how in the world can a trout survive a winter where the river is locked up and then not get washed out when the giant waves of ice water cascade down from the streams into the river?” How did this trout eat all winter? Where did he hide? What is this remarkable instinct that drives them to expend so much energy to jump up and over the falls? If you take the time to ponder these piscatorial philosophies, you will inevitably find yourself with a deepening respect and love for these fish. It is this love, this respect, that draws out the best in humanity.

We can return to the stream each year, like a pilgrimage to a watery Mecca, to find the best of ourselves as we cast our lines into the murky depths and pray for a connection.

Lost in thought streamside, hours pass by and we find that we are in what athletes refer to as “the zone.” It is at this pinnacle of mindfulness that it happens.

Bang! The rod bends down toward the rushing water and we bow with it, then raise the tip up quickly but not violently, so as not to pull the hook out of the mouth. The fight begins. The rod begins to thump and swing from side to side as the fish seeks to shake the entomological deceiver from its jaws.

Keep the tip up and enough tension to keep the hook set - but not too much. When the fish swings downstream, walk with him. When he swings back up into the raging current, play the rod to the upstream side. It’s like a beautiful choreographed tango where two beings are mirroring each other, connected by a thin piece of monofilament line and a tiny hook. Delicate yet powerful.

Finally, the fish begins to tire, and you gently retrieve the line allowing it to swirl at your feet. Do not reel. Honor the retreat. Once the fish is brought to hand, take the time to admire the beauty of this miracle. 

Will his flesh nurture yours tonight or will you choose to release him back to the stream to live to fight another day? It seems that that the older I get the more I choose the latter.