The Ozarks Smallmouth Alliance: Dimly lit threads of silver

" You cannot step into the same river twice"

-Heraclitus

Guiding... Getting paid to fish? Really? Well, sort of..Getting paid to watch other people fish, row a boat, untangle knots, make lunch, laugh at bad jokes ( and some good ones), untangle knots, and, hopefully, impart some fly fishing knowledge along the way..usually while untangling knots..this being the "down time" in between bad jokes and boat rowing....

I started my guiding career quite by accident-I lost my real job and had zero desire to return to another "real job". After a very short but thorough self assessment ( I think it went something like " Hmmmm, what to do now.....??), I determined that I wanted to fish for a living.
Turns out, It's not all cocaine and hookers, it's hard work. Up at 0300, frantic pre-trip tying sessions, tons of gear up keep and countless other chores keep the glamorous side of guiding in check. Then there's the real trick; getting clients. This was the infancy of the internet, when I began my career, and clients came more by referral than Google. Luckily, I had stumbled into a gig as fly fishing instructor at Roaring River State park, and started to build a name as someone who could catch his share ( and several others fair share) of fish.

In truth, I guided about 2 years longer than I should have. It became a job. I didn't want a job, so this was a dilemma. But, in retrospect, I kept at it because I was good at it, and I was more afraid of not being good at fly fishing and guiding than I was of anything. There is more to the story, but that's another post.

All of that leads me to this; why did I start guiding? My answer came in a series of essays I was writing at the time of my brothers death. I am including an excerpt here that sums it up. I still cannot read this without some emotion, even though I wrote it more than 16 years ago..

Chapter One: Dimly Lit Threads of Silver

The life I lead, that of a full time fly fishing guide, fly tyer and general nut for all things related to fly fishing and the pursuit of oneness with my surroundings, was not chosen in haste. To dedicate yourself to a life of near poverty, poor accommodations, and lack of many possessions not related to your field of work is a decision not to be made lightly. But it is one that has rewarded me in ways that are beyond rational explanation.
There are times on the water, like in all of life, when you are completely alone, yet feel surrounded by the things that make life what it is. A constantly changing, fluid operation that is different no matter how many times you attempt to repeat it.

The first step I take into a river is like coming home for Christmas. I feel the familiar rush of liquid energy; smells that have filled my life once again bring the feeling of familiarity. The first motion on stream is to touch the water, as if to, only for a moment, attempt to be one with the stream of life. There is a feeling you get, if you open your self to it, that somehow you belong here. That, even though you've done this a million times, you can transcend normal being, and JUST be a part of the river.
To be included in the daily goings on of the rivers life cycle, is to be blessed with a glimpse at wholeness. Watch closely, and you will see in the river all the characteristics we as humans find appealing in others. Beauty, grace, honesty, and giving occur, as they should, without thought or selfishness. The river knows not that it gives life to the fish of our longing; it just does what it does. It doesn't care that it nourishes all things that it touches; it just flows in a more or less forward course, forever changing, always winning.

When you look at it, it just appears to be flowing. Not so. It is breathing. Every riffle, every pool, alive in a kind of way that I will never know, but will always strive for.

I can’t tell you where this enlightenment (if that what you want to call it) comes from. I do however know where it occurred.

Several years ago, I was fishing Roaring River with my younger brother, Jon.
Jon was in the middle of battling cancer, a fight he would ultimately lose, and had not felt up to fishing in a while. Chemotherapy, radiation treatments and the rapid loss in weight that accompanies these treatments had left Jon very weak. But on this day, if I remember correctly it was a warm spring day, Jon had told me he felt he needed a trip. Jon and I grew up fishing this river. We had spent many a childhood summer roaming the hills and creeks in this wonderful watershed. Roaring River was my birthplace as it pertains to trout fishing, my lust for fishing nurtured on it’s stringers of hatchery trout and days spent with my family camped next to it’s cool, lush green banks. As I was saying, Jon said he felt up to a trip and asked if we could fish ‘together’, meaning side by side or at least in close proximity to one another. I knew that even though Jon said he felt well enough to fish, he was very tired and would need help and frequent rests.

Arriving at the river mid morning, we were pleasantly surprised to find few people on its banks. Roaring is a state run trout park and can be crowded at times, so the lack of people was a bonus to an already beautiful day.

I helped Jon out of the car and proceeded to put his rod up, rig my own and select flies for the both of us. I noticed Jon had already made his way to the river and was studying it intently. The look in his eyes told me that he was again wondering if this would be the final time he was going to gaze on the river that had brought us so much enjoyment. That look, that moment in time when I saw another person trying to saturate his being with his surroundings, changed my life and outlook on fly-fishing and trout streams. I saw Jon, desperately ill, looking at the River for what it was, a living, breathing entity that, like his own life, ebbed and flowed and could not be contained. Jon was trying to surround himself with the river, to take a piece of it and suspend it in time, so as to claim it for his own. For as long as I live, I will never forget that moment. Jon was SEEING the river, not just looking at it.

We fished for a while, until Jon needed to rest, and sat, looking at the stream as it flowed by us. I don’t remember what our conversation was about, I just remember that every time I looked at my brother, he was still staring at the river, I think trying to gather some energy from it. He wanted so bad to fish, but his strength was gone. I helped him back to the car and returned to the bank to retrieve our gear. When I knelt beside the water, I reached in, bathed my face in its coolness and said thanks. Thanks because through the eyes of a dying man, I for the first time in my life, saw how much of a friend the River had been, thanks for allowing Jon and I to spend one more moment, however brief, sharing in it’s generosity and grace...