For a split second, my brain doesn’t comprehend the implications of the sensation. Where there was once tension – a pulsing fish pulling against the line and the current – is now simply slack. It takes a moment to wrap my head around the fact that the fish is gone. Next comes frustration. It might be a few choice words. It could be a whip of the fly line. It may simply be an empty stare.

The frustration is the result of there being no payoff. No fish in hand. No follow through on what was started. The reasons are myriad: a bad hook set, too much slack, too much pressure, a bad knot, a submerged log, or perhaps even a fish that happens to be really big/smart/strong. It is hard to nail it down. Some combination of human error, trout nature, and general circumstance conspired to the end that there is nothing at the end of my line.

It doesn’t feel good. It is part of fishing (that is why they don’t call it catching, etc.). It happens to everyone. It gets to swim away to fight another day.

But when an animal doesn’t get to swim, walk, or fly away and you lose it, that is worse than losing a fish.

Twice this past week I shot birds that I was unable to retrieve. A mallard went down hard. Another, a wood duck, made a slow descent. Each were well within my range, and my ammunition was appropriate. I didn’t see either one after they went into the reeds.

My friend and I spent a good chunk of the best shooting light looking for that mallard. It took a minute to get across the deep channel into the area where the bird went down. There were plenty of feathers on the water, but the reeds were very thick and remarkably duck-colored. The wood duck didn’t hit the water hard. Feathers flew upon impact; that and the fact that it split from the other three birds it was flying alongside implied the shot was sure. But not sure enough.

Now, something will eat those ducks. A fox, an eagle, or even an aggressive pickerel will have a great day. But that isn’t why I go hunting. I certainly am not in it so that an animal has a less than quick death. Losing any bird sticks with me more than losing  a big fish.

Losing a fish is not fun. For most of us, for most of the time, it means that we don’t get to actively release the fish. A inadvertent, passive release is a frustrating and potentially  lasting experience. Yet losing a bird, a deer, or even a squirrel is different. It isn’t supposed to happen that way. But it often does. And it is a reminder of the stakes of being outdoors. It is a reminder of blood, of life, and our stewardship of it.