Fly Fishing and the Art of Fatherhood

     


     Any serious fisher knows that fly fishing is an art; any good parent will tell you that fatherhood is an art as well.  And no man embodies the intersection of these two arts like my own dad.
     My father, much like Hemingway, is a wordsmith and an outdoorsman.  He hunts, fishes, and ties his own flies.  He also recites poetry and reads some of the masters of prose, like Ted Leeson, Professor of English at Oregon State and author of the lyrical book, The Habit of Rivers.  Dad and I are reading Leeson together, and it is no coincidence that what Leeson says about fly fishing is true of fatherhood as well:


          "Still at sea, the salmon sense home rivers on the faintest dilution of fresh water and know its significance within the certainty of instinct.  But a fisherman must work to unravel the meaning, and finally fishing is only an argument, a studied drawing of inferences about undisclosed things" (Leeson 10).  


     Now I know at least part of the reason I became an English professor--it's in my genes.  Like my fly fishing father, I seek, in poetry, novels and film, to unravel meaning. It is one of my life's great joys.  And nowhere was this revelation more clear to me than two summers ago when Dad taught my sons and I how to fly fish in the sunlit rivers of Colorado.  Looping fly lines, rising trout, water dancing on the surface all dramatized their own poetry.  Tangles of a fly caught in branches, fish who leapt off the line--these, too, unraveled meaning as the kids and I learned patience and the gentle art of laughing at our mistakes.  Ever patient, Dad, who must have longed to hold the rod himself, instead changed the flies for us.  He taught us over and over to hold the line above our heads for a count or two before casting.  As we waded down rivers seeking ever elusive trout, he reminded us of 9:00 and 3:00, the positions 180 degrees apart on a clock-face that helped us envision the line directly behind us before casting it forth.  He consoled us when we lost fish, and how he cheered when we got one.  The "undisclosed things" we were really catching, though?  Love, patience, humility, tenacity, and joy.


           "The trout fisherman, however, is a fox, a tactician and strategist with a deference to contingencies and one eye perpetually over his shoulder.  He improvises, ad libs, thinks on his feet"  (Leeson 27).


     Doesn't this sound like a father?  What parent isn't a shrewd tactician and a wily strategist?  Aren't the best of fathers always improvising, whether they're teaching a daughter and grandsons how to fish, or navigating the toasting and dancing on that daughter's wedding day?  I can't imagine how many times Dad has had to think on his feet with me and my boys.  Whether I needed financial advice or the boys needed a grandfather to explain to them which fly best catches hungry trout, Dad has had to be ready for every contingency, every possible question.  As Ted Leeson says, the fly fisher's vest is "a succession of Plan B's in which there's always an alternative, always something to fall back on" (27).  In Dad's case, the flies were often hand tied by him.  His flies are listed in various fly tying books and sold commercially, which tells me that my boys and I are the descendants of a man who tests the field, improves upon it, and uses his skills to fall back on.  What better lesson can a father teach his kids?


          "Every angler is an expert in the husbandry of hope, doling it out one spot, one cast, one fly at a time" (41).  

Perhaps this is the strongest link between the two arts, fly fishing and fatherhood.  As a parent, I know I can't protect my children from pain and hard times, but I can instill, always in them, hope.  My dad has done this for me time and time again.  Whether the fish were biting or not (all metaphors apply), Dad tells me over and over that everything happens for a reason, that God has a plan, and that it's ok to improvise our way through life, hoping always to find the "undisclosed things."   When, after minutes or hours, the boys and I finally caught a fish, there was, in that simple act, confirmation that our efforts could pay off.  The fish provided, as Leeson puts it, "validation of its presence and your own."   To learn the value of our own simple presence....  The best fathers give that gift to their kids everyday.  I've certainly received it in abundance from mine.

     Happy Father's Day, Dad.  I love you.

     Enough writing.  Let's go fishing!