Fishing Alone

It’s only in reflection that I realize the significance of fishing alone. It never really dawned on me until I was texting a friend a Happy Thanksgiving message and encouraged him to fish solo.

He had some time to get on the water over the holiday, and I knew a few good spots near where he’d be, so I passed them on. After sending the text, I went on to pick up my son’s toys throughout the house—a never-ending task, but job security for me, ha.

The mindless work let my thoughts drift back to the text and my own experiences fishing alone. Mind you, the day after Thanksgiving, I went on a solo mission to one of my favorite spots, and that’s when the flood of thoughts hit.

I’ve fished alone a lot. I know it can be frowned upon as a safety risk, but I take no unnecessary chances—no sketchy water crossings, no reckless maneuvers. Still, I’ve had great inward and outward learning experiences along the way.

The biggest lesson? Slow down. I cover shorter distances but more water alone than with others. Maybe I’m more analytical alone, dissecting the situations thoroughly. Maybe so. I always work a section to death, leaving no questionable spots unanswered. Those unanswered spots haunt me. Truly.

I study water and entomology more intently. I remember sitting on a grassy bank, sorting through my fly box, debating which fly to tie on. A few possibilities ready, I felt something crawling across my neck. Scooping it up, I opened my hand to find a hot and horny stonefly scrambling across my palm. I let him go and dug out an imitation. No luck right in front of me, but venturing upriver, I saw not just the interrupted stonefly orgies but a feeding frenzy in the water. The fish didn’t seem to mind my artificial at all.

Also, let’s face it—I tie better knots when alone. Haha.

This brings me to something different: the Aboriginal “walkabout.” A rite of passage where young males journey into the wilderness for up to six months, making a spiritual transition into manhood.

The journey itself is unknown, but “on the path” is where the significance lies. What you start with may not be what you end with. Walking a river, with your mind freed from where you began, gives perspective on the past, present, and maybe future self. Alone, you are your own company—forced to deal only with yourself and your thoughts.

Fishing alone is just that, tied with the instinctual act of hunting prey. The entire process strikes a chord in me, grounding me, connecting me to something larger, or maybe disconnecting me from the petty human world.

I’ve fished seven consecutive days alone, seeing only a few people from afar. Randomly, it dawned on me that I hadn’t spoken out loud for hours, even days. I’d forgotten what my voice sounded like. Sitting by the river for a food break, I intentionally spoke aloud. My voice crackled softly. Broken bits of words hung in my throat, coaxed by the water into something familiar. I laughed. For the meantime, I enjoyed being speechless.

This led me to consider spiritual enlightenment through silence—or maybe just having nothing to say and no one to say it to. It also showed me the difference between thoughts and speech. If you have nothing to say, don’t say anything. I thought of negative space in jazz and art—another conversation for another time, ha.

Fishing alone has been something good for me. Everyone experiences it differently, but this is mine.

Fish on.

Fish on.