UNDERCURRENTS
THE EDGE OF DARKNESS L E R O Y B O T H A L O O K S T O F LY F I S H I N G F O R A B R E AT H I N T H E S PA C E B E T W E E N L I F E A N D D E AT H Artwork Conrad Botes. Photos LeRoy Botha
“No tree can grow to heaven unless its roots reach down to hell.” – Carl Jung My internal monologue is splitting into a conversation between the opposing poles of my psyche: “I’m not dead yet,” “Yeah? Give it a minute.” I look back at a dense timeline of dark chapters, laden like a minefield with plot twists, loose ends and cliff-hangers. As long as I see no fat lady and hear no singing, I remind myself how many times I’d seen this show … and then I go fishing. It works at least half of the time, and that used to be good enough. But I’m not gonna lie. This isn’t a joke anymore. It’s a fucking nightmare. A bipolar musician with a fly fishing problem walks into a bar. Next thing you know, no more fishing. Sure. It is more complicated than that; it’s not as bad and yet even worse than it sounds but, really, that’s it in a nutshell. I crack myself up. Ten seasons into a slow-burn drama, I find myself at the beginning of 2021 both physically and philosophically incapable of going fishing. By the time my arm (among other things) is sufficiently healed to really use a fly rod, I’d fallen so deep into a hole that I couldn’t bring myself to do so. Even if I could, I can’t afford to because, between the injuries and depression, my productivity grinds to a screeching halt. Thus, halfway through Season 11, I am also financially incapable of going fishing. It’s dark. By the time I realise that, for better or worse, fly fishing had been a lifeline, I reach the end of it. “I’ve got this.” “I know you want to think you do, but we both know you don’t.” Over many years, I developed some sentimentality about certain fishing spots and bits of well-used fly fishing gear. My favourite hat, backpack and boots have a lot of river miles on them, (to put it politely), but they are super fishy and I have no desire to “upgrade” them. Some pieces of gear are bones of mercy chucked at this dog by friends who wouldn’t see me go without. I treasure those. But exotic destinations and forests of top-end fly rods are not a big deal to me, for more reasons than these things simply
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being out of reach. Hype gets a lot of good people to a lot of good water, but these days, mostly, it dilutes my desire to fall in line. I learned that good fishing could not only be found on the other side of the planet which, I admit appears to be teeming with massive, willing fish or something. To me, good fishing became a shitty cast in good company, or that sweet focus that only happens when I fish alone. Getting to drink from an ice cold trickle feeding a mountain trout stream, as though suckling from the very boob of Mother Nature. Or standing motionless like a majestic heron, in the middle of a vast mud flat - often on one leg to stretch the glutes and alleviate lower back pain that results from standing still for so long - in the vague hope that a spotted grunter will swim within casting range and that you’d notice it before it notices you. And then switching legs and standing there some more. It was all Zen and shit. I found it wherever I needed it to be. The decider was simple: where your head is determines the level of appreciation for the opportunities you get.
“TO ME, GOOD FISHING BECAME A SHITTY CAST IN GOOD COMPANY, OR THAT SWEET FOCUS THAT ONLY HAPPENS WHEN I FISH ALONE.” I’m not saying I don’t have a bucket list, or that I never swoon over a quality bit of kit. But what’s the rush? In some ways, the radius of experience seems to grow against the odds in any case. Getting out is enough. Good fishing is where you’re at. Consider, then, how earlier this year I used my bad arm to lob flies at big catfish living in a polluted river five minutes from home. Desperate for a fish, I saw an opportunity and I seized it. It was dirty and it stank, and it was fucking great. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on your view point, I also caught a piece of shit which cured me of catfish fever before I caught anything more serious.
W W W. T H E M I S S I O N F LY M A G . C O M
