Why I Fish
A steady hand holds the rod, eyes locked on the drifting fly. In this moment, the world fades—only the stream, the cast, and focus remain.
It’s not about the gear. My rod is nothing fancy. My fly box holds one pattern—simple, worn, reliable. It works, or it doesn’t. Either way, I’m out there.
I fish because it takes me places where wild things still happen.
A good day isn’t measured in fish. It’s the feeling of gravel under boots, the hush of mist lifting off the water, the first rustle in the alders. It’s how quickly I can leave behind the paved world and step into something older, quieter, more alive.
Once I’m in the river, the current carries more than my weight—it sweeps away the noise. Distractions fade into stillness. Then—a flash in the shadows, a quick dart beneath the surface. A brook trout? Maybe. Light fractures on the riffle like stained glass, and every cast becomes a question, a chance to glimpse something just out of reach.
I fish for the mystery. For the sense that around any bend, something unexpected might happen. Sometimes it’s the fish rising where I least expect it. But more often, it’s everything else. A heron lifting off upstream. An osprey on lookout. A buck wading through the shallows. The sudden hush that falls before a storm.
I fish for the maybe. Maybe today I’ll see the otter again. Maybe the juvenile river herring will be thick in the water, flushed by the recent rains. Maybe I’ll stumble on spawning white sucker. Or today will be the day I catch the mythically large fish.
But it’s not about catching. It’s about stepping into a world that runs on its own time. Out there, I’m not in control. I’m just part of the backdrop, watching and listening. And in those moments, I don’t need answers or meaning. I just feel it. The quiet truth of the place. And I appreciate it for what it is. Nothing more, nothing less.
It’s often I don’t catch fish. But I always come back with something. A new river oddity. A turkey’s gobble echoing in the distance. A moment when the sun hit the water just right and everything shimmered in the autumn gold. There are days when the wind makes casting miserable. When nothing stirs, and I question why I came. But even then, there’s always something—some flicker of wildness, some detail I’d have missed if I’d stayed home. A reason to keep looking. A reason to keep coming back.
Fishing gives me a reason to linger. To stay longer than I otherwise would. To stand still and watch. And in that stillness, nature reveals itself—slowly, quietly, beautifully. I fish to be part of that. To feel, for a little while, stitched into the fabric of a place. Not controlling it. Not owning it. Just witnessing it.
That’s why I fish.
For the glimpse.
For the whisper.
For the wild.
