The first group of anglers had camped out overnight. Their truck beds and backseats had been carefully prepared for such adventures. Pillows, sleeping bags, and power from sources other than car batteries were set up right alongside waders, jackets, and pre-rigged fly rods. It was less about comfort and more about sliding from a quasi-comfortable night’s sleep into the cold water of the river.
The salmon and lake-run brown trout of the Great Lakes tributaries are sought after quarry. Their seasonality, their size, and their relative scarcity flip a switch in outdoorsmen’s brains from late fall to ice-in. Fishing for them becomes a part of the weekly routine if you live nearby. Long drives for short days on the water are the burden of those who have caught the bug.
And, of course, there is the whole “combat fishing” aspect to the enterprise. When fishing public water, best case scenario involves standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Casts and drifts are synchronized to avoid tangles. Dozens of anglers effectively form an ineffective dragnet. Worst case scenario? Snaggers, fisticuffs, and a dangerous spike in the collective blood pressure. Thankfully, there is enough common grace for the former circumstance to be common enough.
Still, getting on the water first is the best way to enjoy the sportsmanship of one’s fellow man.
The second group of anglers’ headlights illuminate the groggy campers as they emerge, steaming from their makeshift lodging. There is a bit of resentment that goes both ways. Who deserves it more? The ones who slept in their cars all night or the ones who consciously left their comfortable beds at an unreasonable hour? Regardless, the commuters still have to don their waders and orient their gear. The campers claim the first spots and begin to swing flies first.
The third group of anglers roll into the lot with the benefit of the sun over the horizon. They’re awake and caffeinated, but limited in their parking choices and even more limited in their choice of holes to fish. Those already in the water keep one eye on their bobbers and one on each new fly fisher meandering down towards the stream. They comment “Where’s this guy think he’s going to stand?” to each other. In a few hours, “this guy” will be one of them, casting furtive glances with the sound of tires on gravel.
There is a fourth group of anglers constituted of those who arrive throughout the day. Many of them were on other rivers, but bailed for one reason or another. Finding spots in the casting queue requires some boldness and some creativity. Or, as is often the case, probing bits of water that are less attractive: skinny, still, or a combination of the two.
Finally, there is a fifth group. These are the end of the day group of anglers. They are either coming from work or getting an hour of fishing in before their trip begins in earnest tomorrow. Either way, they are pressing their luck. The river is full. The fish have seen all the flies. But they drove here and put on their waders, so they fish.
Everyone is fishing. Not everyone catches fish. And, as a rule of creation, the fish don’t respect how long the fisherman has been on the clock. All these introduced salmonids know is that they want to move upstream. It is inexplicable. Their simple brains only know to swim into the current. No synapse has any interest in firing anything remotely like “eat that thing” until they all fire at once and their mouth opens to eat that thing. It too is inexplicable. This is why fish honor anglers from the fifth group just as much as those from the first.
People have their own economy. Individual merit matters. This does hold true to fly fishing to some degree, yet not so much in this kind of angling. The fish reflect something different. They bite for the early and the late; the ethical and the unethical alike. The salmon does not give in easily, but it does so unconditionally. It may frustrate those who feel like they deserve it more, but the kid with the Snoopy rod and the nightcrawler catches fish too. Kicking against the goads of creation is foolish. Embracing truths that point to greater things, of that which is no respecter of persons, is the only way to enjoy your place in the line of other anglers. And it is also how we ought to see the Kingdom.
“These last men have worked only one hour, and you have made them equal to us who have borne the burden of the day and the scorching heat.” But he answered and said to one of them, “Friend, I am doing you no wrong; did you not agree with me for a denarius? Take what is yours and go, but I wish to give to this last man the same as to you. Is it not lawful for me to do what I wish with what is my own? Or is your eye envious because I am generous? So the last shall be first, and the first last.”
Matthew 20:12-16
An interesting breakdown of the fall spectacle Matthew.
I admit to being briefly included in the first few groups but quickly tired of being a performer in that circus. That scenario mostly applies to the famous salmon runs and the anglers participating in the spectacle do so with full knowledge of the combat conditions.
Meanwhile, I’ve found that almost every tributary, no matter how small, has migratory fish at some point during the fall. All that was necessary to find them was a nice, quiet walk through the woods. My salmon fishing is done in the numerous ravines of Toronto where I can play “tug of war” all day and not see another soul.
That’s the ticket, John. You have your reward!