Hibernation and the Forlorn Angler

At this point in my lifelong love of fishing, of which 40 percent has been devoted to fly fishing and half of that to the business of fishing, it has become ever tricky for me to ascertain just how and what the general public actually “thinks” about fishing. Or, more specifically, those who fish. Perhaps I am too consumed by my world. A benign echo chamber of sorts, where nearly everyone I speak with regularly is in the same boat, pun intended… We are all hopelessly addicted to fishing. 

And so I wonder, when people, be they layman or piscatorially inclined, hear the term “angler,” what do they see in their mind’s eye? Images of their fathers and grandfathers? An open flame ’round the campfire with a wisp of trout smoke and the scent of fresh-cut lemons? For a good friend of mine, it is his dad’s black and red checkered Filson Mackinaw wool cruiser, a jacket that epitomizes his vision of father with a rod and reel. Maybe it’s a bucket hat decorated with lure and feather or a tattered green vest still clinging to a veiled scent of cigar and thorny wild rose. For some, it is the notion of absolute stillness. A boat on a mirror with a beer and a single companion, either furry or fair or faithful friend. Reluctantly, I acknowledge that for those far removed from my world of fly fishing, it may also conjure an image of the television and the fist-pumping of a Bassmaster Championship. And for sure, the modern cliche image of man-with-fish so often seen in the male profiles of dating apps isn’t doing anything for the sport. However, it may statistically belong at the top of this accounting of our mind’s eye when it comes to stalking fish with sticks.

To an angler, the notion of the angler is a mirror. To consider the angler is to consider one’s relationship to our archetypical notions of the angler. And where is that line between one who fishes and the illusory title of “angler.” It’s easy for me to self-identify as one because it’s part of my occupation, but few (myself included) walk into a cocktail party and answer the query, “What do you do?” with the preposterous arrogance of “I’m an angler.” In an early scene of the famous film A River Runs Through It, our two protagonist brothers contemplate what they want to be when they grow up. The boyhood version of Brad Pitt’s character declares emphatically, “professional fly fisherman.” His brother replies, “There’s no such thing.” And that’s that. There is no such thing as a professional fly fisherman, especially not in 1920s Montana. 

In today’s world, that reality remains. There are almost no professional anglers. The professionals here are actually in disguise. We are all hospitality mongers engaged in the service industry. One certainly can earn a living in and around the business of fishing, but the business of fishing only offers an occupation to those who don’t really need an occupation to begin with: the young, the rich, and in the world of fly fishing, the scoundrel “trout bum.” Surprisingly, author Robert Hughes, most well-known as a contemporary art critic, wrote a book about fishing humorously titled A Jerk on One End: Reflections of a Mediocre Fisherman. Within it, he succinctly summarizes the ouroboros of an old notion of fishing from James Saunders’ 1724 book, The Compleat Fisherman. “The true gentleman angler could not be a ‘Man of Business,’ because if he left his counting house to go fishing, he ‘makes the Sport become a Vice in his Morals; his Angling is a Crime.’ Nor should he make fishing into a business, which lowered its tone.”

Apart from the conundrum that to become a highly skilled angler, one must have time independent of financial need to hone the craft; we also see the birth of an ancient burden, the virus of guilt’s co-dependence with our time spent outdoors. A sad truth, but I digress. There are only four ways to earn a living in the world of fishing, three of which are the immutable tenets of tourism. You can sell people precisely three things: a place to sleep, food to eat, and “stuff.” Hotelier, restaurateur, and retail fishing gear proprietor. The first two are clearly reserved for the rich and the latter for the stupid. Who could operate a margin-thin business with only six viable months of the year? Oh, right, the rich man. This leaves us with the fourth and final occupational option, the fabled fishing guide. A job I am most familiar with, and believe me, it is exhausting and occasionally unforgiving, save the company of some of the nicest people I have ever met. The office view is top-notch, and the pay is more than fair, but it lasts, at best, only six months of the year.

Furthermore, the weather-related impacts of global warming sometimes shrink that viable window to a mere two to four months. Unless you are so untethered that you can fly south for the winter, the guide game is best played as a side hustle and nothing more. Once again relegating it to a paid hobby for those with the time to play their hobbies for a living.

In an effort to remain objective, I will acknowledge one version of the angler who can make a living as a professional: those operating within the exceedingly narrow world of competitive bass fishing. But, like many professional golfers, few win enough to pay for the gas required to make it to the next tournament. It is a similar world where one needs to win to get paid, even if their sponsorships fit the bill for gear and tackle. I’d argue that winning the fishing-as-a-sport lottery is as rare as becoming a successful film actor, and, like anglers, the world is loaded with people who want to be famous. Ironically, becoming a successful social media angler earns you the distinguished demotion of “influencer.” 

Professional inclinations aside, most people do not follow the mantra of “turn what you love into your job,” especially if that love happens to be fishing. We just fish. About 58 million Americans do, and most of us act as we must in the off-season. We hibernate, read, reflect on personal bests vs. the ones that got away, and, hopefully, convene more closely with family and friends. Those more inclined to every nuance of the sport will engage in tactical books about feeding behavior and the selection of lure based on a million uncontrollable factors. We will dupe ourselves into believing we are brighter than the quantifiably unintelligent creatures we call fish. It is simply one of life’s greatest and most beautiful ironies. Like it or not, it promotes a notion that our time seeking fish is one of faith, which lies conspicuously between the poles of luck and skill. Or perhaps at their intersection. Another contemplation for these waning days of winter.

Winter, of course, is an especially cruel beast to the angler. All anglers, in fact. Unless, of course, one has the financial means to travel the world. An endless drift, of sorts. “A plague on both your houses,” I say. Jealousy and flattery and all that. Good for them, but for most of us, the fishing season comes and goes. We receive a beautiful gift every spring, only to have it taken away the following fall. As a typical northeasterner, I am okay with the ebb and the flow. I embrace the changing of seasons because I quite like the melodrama of having my lover taken from me, only to welcome her back into my life when the weather warms and migrating birds reappear for the promise of berries and leaves. 

However, and I mean HOWEVER, there is a limit to what any angler can take, and it matters not if you’re the proverbial traditionalist of American dry fly fishing or a Hills Brothers wormer, there comes a point, usually in March, that we cannot take it any longer. The waiting must end. We need the tug of a fish on the other end of a hair-thin line to make us feel whole again. For in the absence of that continual baptism of “a life submerged,“ I am adrift as all anglers are. 

The angler must angle, as the painter must paint, and as one who makes nature my spiritual space, I am lost without my church. My therapist takes the entire winter off as my neuroses rear uglier heads. A less enlightened sense of self emerges from the depths of a repetitive cold instead of the catch and the release. I am, like the trout, in a torpor of sorts. I can tie feathers and fur to hook in anticipation of the game, but the novelty is just that. It offers no simulacrum. No taste. We must simply wait. A painful longing. The River Ria. My honor in my restraint, like a vow renewed with every circle ’round my sun. Our countenance cannot be denied in the face of our resolve. I am empowered by this strength as much as I am aware of my martyrdom. And so, I stay quiet. Hidden below sightlines. Awaiting my moment to strike and the song of my reel in spring.

Photos Courtesy of Todd Spire @toddspire

Todd Spire is a contributing author and lives in the Hudson Valley, NY. Follow Todd on Substack @CatskillsMade and Instagram @ToddSpire. Read more about him HERE.