Of late, I was thinking about why I fly fish for salmon. Amongst all my rationalization, I was trying to convince myself that catching salmon onthe fly was really secondary to the hunt, the pursuit, to time on the water, dawn and dusk in the estuaries, the low clear water of autumn and the gentle river raise that follows a spring freshet.
I just about had myself convinced that all these things were enough, that it didn’t really matter whether I ever caught another salmon in my life. fter all, I reasoned, I have fished days and weeks on end without so much as a tug. Why not whole seasons without hooking a king? I would still have my art to practice, the river sounds and smells.
Then it came to me, and it hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks. I can devote those days and weeks on end as long as I have the genuine hope of hooking a salmon. I always see salmon, at least every other day or so, sometimes every day. I may or may not be able to draw the tug, but I have solace knowing that I am fishing among salmon. My time on the estuaries and rivers is special because I know that salmon live there. I know that I have a chance to catch a fish. I can see their wakes, see them rolling, glimpse the shadow of salmon in pools.
What is it about salmon fishing that I love, if not the salmon? could I love just the rivers, just the waters? As much as I love swinging a fly through the water, my ritual would be empty, farcical, if I knew that no salmon were there to see my fly.
Returning season after season to familar places, exploring new pools and tide flats, what joy would that hold if not for the salmon?
None. None at all. learning the proper tides to fish, the salmon’s habits, the flies they will take, the lines to fish, how the weather and river flows affect their movements – all of this would be irrelevant. The anticipation of tying a fly, of planning a trip, of seeking the perfect anchor point – would be pointless if not for salmon beneath the waters.
So after all, it is not enough to feel the power in a good cast, focus on packing flies neatly in fly boxes, change lines at the end of a season, dream of a new rod, or be the first (or last) on the water. None of the joys I feel while salmon fishing matter the slightest without the salmon beneath the surface.
I have been confused for years, thinking that loving the art of fly fishing could sustain me. The art of the fly. Camaraderie and the weather and the river’s song.
Now I know with certainty, that the salmon are the ingredient that flows through everything else. Without salmon, the rivers are uninteresting to me. I acknowledge that this is irrational and unfair to the ecosystem that could still survive without salmon.
But still, rivers without salmon hold no interest to me.