The Aging Angler | Derek Bird

The other day I found myself fishing with somewhat of an odd group, mostly because of the wide age range between each of us. I surmised, based on my companions’ appearances, the three of us were each approximately 20 years apart, which meant I (a Gen Xer) was firmly sandwiched between a Baby Boomer and a Millennial.

I have little to discuss about generational speculation and stereotypes, though I am sure someone one day will write their doctoral dissertation on something as specialized and completely useless to society as generational differences amongst fly anglers. What struck me about this group was not so much our generational differences but the difference 20 years, or 40 years, makes to a fly angler’s level of enthusiasm.

The youngest member of the group, I’ll call him Pat, first diverted my attention from the task at hand—the bugs coming off the water and the trout rising for them— to the less important concept of enthusiasm. As the day went on, I noticed he approached the water with a certain level of ferocity, an unbridled passion, like he possessed some innate drive which controlled his every cast. He left no water untouched. If a pocket had even a remote possibility of holding a trout, he threw a cast into it. As a result, Pat exceeded my cast count and the Baby Boomer’s cast totals combined.

He also changed flies like celebrities change hairstyles. If a particular midge pattern didn’t work, he’d tie on a variation and then another until he ran out of variations. After that, he went to mayflies and repeated the process, then moved onto terrestrials. Pat’s approach to the water was machinelike, but not without feeling. He did what he did because he loved catching fish with flies: nymphs, streamers, dries…it didn’t matter. If I were to ask him why he loved fly fishing so much, my guess is he wouldn’t have much of a clue because he has not taken the time to actually think about it. I know I wouldn’t have known at his age. Pat’s too busy fly fishing to think much about something as cerebral as answers to the philosophical “why” question. There were fish to be caught that day and he would not stop to rest until he’d at least done everything within his power to present a fly to each and every one. The hours in the day were really all that could attempt to contain Pat’s enthusiasm for fly fishing.

I found myself a little envious of this young fly angler’s energy, but I also identified with the desire, which ran like a spring river during runoff—deep and unable to be controlled by its banks. Twenty years ago, I, like Pat, never wanted to leave the river; I’d arrive early and stay late. Stopping for lunch was optional because the desire to fish often masked hunger pains. Risks like crossing streams and sliding uncontrollably down steep terrain meant little as long as a remote possibility to catch a large trout existed. Darkness alone—not sunburns or heat or mosquitoes or injury—drove me from the stream. At times, if the moon was full on a cloudless night and if lack of responsibility allowed, I’d even fish until well past dark.

But something gradual happens to enthusiasm over 20 years, over 40 years. For some, I guess it goes away completely and they trade in their fly rods for golf clubs, or they replace misty mornings on a tranquil stream with daybreaks spent sipping coffee at fast food joints. For other anglers though, passion for fly fishing morphs into something almost unrecognizable. Enthusiasm transforms into a tested and far-reaching knowledge which envelops feeling, comparable to an autumn stream meandering its way through plains and prairies. I only assume this based on the older gentleman—call him Gordon—whom I fished with in this odd trio. Gordon was 20 years my senior, so he fished with less fervency than Pat but with greater efficiency. Gordon made every cast count. He did not appear to fish all the seams or riffles; instead, he sat back a little more and put thought into each cast, strategically placing his fly. Though he changed flies, he did so with less urgency. On this particular day, he rested, observed and then reached into his fly box for a classic pattern, tied it on, pulled line, cast and hooked a large trout, possibly the largest of the day.

At one point in the afternoon the fishing slowed. Though the trout continued to rise, they proved to be more wily and didn’t come up for our flies. Gordon tried a few different patterns, with no success, and then sat back for a while, seemingly enjoying the unpredictability of the moment. Then, after a short reprieve, he surveyed the stream and headed back out. As he stood in the water firmly securing footholds and casting to the shadows in the forefront and avoiding the firs on his back cast, he framed a portrait. He stood in front of me, a harbinger of what I could be in 20 years if I stood strong against the forces which deterred me from my pursuit. This portrait communicated the message, that for some, fly fishing can be a lifelong relationship.

I saw fly fishing and Gordon as the old couple who’ve been married for their entire adult lives and remain loving companions because they’ve learned the secret of growing old together. The two respect each other. At one time they were probably more like Pat, all over each other with displays of public affection, but that’s not them now. Their affection is more subtle. They know the other more intimately than anyone could know an individual, and their relationship is not based on expectations but on acceptance. I suspect this is the result of a recognition of dissonance, of discord. Knowing that the challenges—the wind-knots and the fishless days, the slips and the broken rods—have to be there so an individual can appreciate the rare days when the steelhead consistently take the swung fly and the trout rise effortlessly to the dry. Maybe within this balance resides the answer to the riddle of why some fly anglers maintain enthusiasm and passion. Interestingly enough, in Latin, passion actually means suffering. Somewhere along the way someone understood that the level of tension is a necessary ingredient in the creation of a deep desire. I wonder if this tension, this folly mixed with beauty, actually creates a level of enthusiasm towards a pastime as simple and complicated as casting a fly to a fish.

Age-wise, I’m right in the middle of the 40-year generational continuum between Pat and Gordon. Though I’ve tried not to acknowledge it, I know my enthusiasm for fly fishing is changing. If I’m honest with myself, I can feel my youthful passion flickering like a malfunctioning neon sign in a fly shop window. But after fishing with Gordon, that which I misunderstood as a waning passion was actually just transforming, simply burning at a rate that matches my age and maturity, prodding me to stay younger than I would without it, yet not leaving me breathless, yearning for my youth.

Derek Bird

I’m always willing to share a few fly-fishing secrets. My favorite fly, for example, is the one the trout are taking. My favorite season is the one when trout are biting. My favorite stream is the one where the trout are plentiful and the anglers are few.