I’m man enough to admit that I watch The Waltons, from time to time. The wholesome life of the Depression-era mountain family is the TV version of a palate cleanser. People on The Waltons aren’t perfect, but love and community and family almost always win the day.

That, and they go fishing a lot.

The show is set In Virginia, on a fictitious mountain in a fictitious county. They’re close to Charlottesville, but otherwise the scenes are made up. An exception is the local river; the Rockfish River.

John-Boy Walton and his siblings would fish in the river for sport and for food. The Rockfish River flowed alongside mountain roads. Floods made it a force to be reckoned with. Like real mountain communities, the River was a constant yet impersonal entity that gave and took away. But more often than not, it gave.

Recently I was in central Virginia and I took my boys camping and fishing on the Rockfish River. For all my apparent love for The Waltons, the location was purely coincidental. It’s where a spot was offered, and we gladly went.

Although it was a fishing trip, it was absolutely not a fishing trip. We played, shot rifles, ate, shot clays, ate some more, played even more, and did a little bit of fly fishing. The fishing wasn’t worth marquee billing. Where we were the Rockfish is slow, shallow, and populated by sunfish and smallmouth. Now I’m not above either of those species, but they don’t exactly demand one’s utmost attention or energy. You just fish. And you catch those fish. Poppers, hoppers, whatever.

Technical spring creek trout fishing or stalking saltwater species on the flats both are worthwhile, rewarding pursuits. Often times such experiences involve prolonged buildups punctuated by culminating moments; lots of work for a few big payoffs. Not so on a slow, warm southern river. Cast behind a rock and catch a fish. Twitch a popper under a limb and get a strike. Work from spot to spot watching frogs, birds, and squirrels.

It is a kind of fly fishing that I really enjoy. Whether it is with my boys or by myself, it is really just fishing. It wasn’t about perfect casts or matching the hatch or catching a fish of a certain size. We just wanted to fish.

Although fictitious, I imagine the kind of folks the Waltons represented had the same perspective on fishing. When it wasn’t for sustenance, fishing was just fishing. Life wasn’t easy, so why complicate it further? Why not just cast and retrieve and expect a fish to interrupt every now and then? It’s fly fishing at its best, and one could argue, at its most wholesome.