Ahh yes, I love fishing. I like this picture, proof that you can have the best of everything. A beautiful sunny day in the middle of the desert, a great hairline, and good fishing. I guess you can only have so much though. I theorize that in anticipation of getting a great girl, God decided that I couldn't keep it all. The hairline had to go : / But I still got fishin'.Both of my grandfathers before me loved fishing. It's in my blood. Although none of Grandpa Rohbock's children got hooked, my father must have realized the weighty responsibility left on his shoulders and taught me to love the practice. At first, Brad rebelled, but shortly before his mission, he fell victim to the inevitable. In tribute to fishing, as well as all those who taught me to love the sport I have made this collage from excerpts from a memoir I wrote, and my favorite fishing photos. Enjoy!
The beach was a bright white with light shale. I was disappointed that there weren’t any fish in sight, though I was assured that they were there. My older fishing companions would often point and say, “did you see that fish jump?” I looked for large colorful fish jumping in broad rainbow-like arcs out of the water. Nope, I didn’t see any fish, but I knew Dad and Grandpa were expert fisherman and knew what to look for.
I was at most five at the time, and at that period I was enamored by the concept of boxing. Knowing I was intrigued by boxing, and in attempt to get me psyched up to go fishing, my fishing companions told me that the best part of fishing is “fighting” the fish. Naturally, I pictured myself boxing with a cartoon-like fish balling up its gaudy fins and taking swings at me. At home, I owned a kiddie punching bag – the type with the heavy sandbag in the bottom so that when you punch the over-sized balloon style bag it tips back, hits the floor and pops back up for more. Similarly I imagined my fight-to-come with the cartoon fish. I could just picture it tipping back each time I took a swing and coming back for more. What great fun! I was for it, and so we had left on our fishing expedition.
I doubt it took long for me to lose interest in this new activity of waiting for a fish to take the bait, but after a length of time and some rebuke for throwing rocks into the water, I was called to fight a fish. I ran eagerly to Grandpa, who handed me a large, bamboo-yellow pole and was instructed to “reel him in.” I tried for a while, eagerly reeling the fish in for the fight, but it was harder than it sounded, and I offered the pole back for Grandpa to finish the job. He quipped, “But don’t you want to fight the fish?” I responded in the affirmative, and after some time a bright silver fish flopped on the bright, white beach under a bright, blue sky and a harsh, naked sun. My eyes hurt and, confused, I inquired: “When do I get to fight the fish?”
Well, now I’m older, but when I start anything new I still go through the same process of conceptualizing a new activity, which is followed by the harsh contrast of reality once I’ve actually had the experience. Each case is similar to the first. My fantasies are brought into check, as reality flops on the ground, and the bright truth hurts my mind; just as the sun was too much for my eyes to take in all at once that distant day on the beach of that small unknown reservoir. That’s where life happens – in small unknown settings you never anticipated being in, thinking you’ll get one thing but, in reality, you get something else. Compared to fantasy, reality is always harsh by contrast. Yet, something may spring from this discrepancy – a spontaneity of perception which lends a powerful artistic overtone to life and makes for colorful, vivid memories.
Since that distant day I’ve continued fishing, though it’s much different now: I now fly fish. Everyone needs a setting in which to just ‘be.’ Fly fishing is my setting.
Standing knee-deep in a chilly current, I’m reminded that at least in that world, I’m a visitor. Some people like to hike to get into nature; I like to fish. When I fish I can just ‘be’ amidst nature, which is why I only fish rivers. Once in a river, I can feel the essence of nature best. I believe it’s because the thing that gives the order in nature purpose, is life. The river is always the source of life in whatever habitat it is. Life is momentous, and unlike a lake or pond, so is a river. In a river, I love to just absorb my surroundings. I love the random yet purposeful intervals of sound created by the turbulence of water. I love to watch the dull shimmer of the water as a light breeze sheens its surface . . . air and water. The struggling reflections of the surrounding world, broken by every ripple, yet connected . . . water and light. The world beneath the surface is present in the perpetual motion of the current, yet the fish remain stationary, their bodies only slightly undulating as they fight the current – like we fight gravity. The subject hardly conscious of the opposition
Another reason I like fly fishing, is because you must be so keenly aware of everything. Awareness is key to success; it brings you closer to your surroundings. For instance, the best part of fishing for me is when the fish rises to take your fly. Then, if you are aware, all the separate components of your surroundings somehow come together in a brief episode. The episode is preceded by a struggle, in which the fisherman tries to understand the environment and feel where the fish lies. It is then initiated by ‘the rise’ and epitomized when the connection is made. This connection is made not just with the fish, but with all your surroundings, and you understand for an instant – because you see a bigger picture as though through someone else’s eyes. This aspect of perception is so abrupt that it invalidates the continuity of time. It could last for five minutes, but you’d never know any more than you can know how long a dream lasts. Similarly, it follows that when the fish lands in your net the moment is gone. You wonder where it went, like you grope in futility for that dream you know you had but can’t retrieve when the rays of the sun break your slumber. And so, like a dream, this moment between the rise and the net is set apart from the continuity of time. I do know this: the episode begins with the connection. The connection is at the top of the rise, and reality is what lands in your net; or eludes it.
So you have to be aware, and when you see the fish rise to take the fly it doesn’t surprise you because everything is so intentional. The feeling in that moment is surreal and leaves you in awe. To the onlooker, that brief episode beginning at the apex of the rise, when you’ve hooked the fish and the fight erupts; could appear less than dramatic. Between you and the fish, however, it is momentous; and, the fight itself is a delicate dance, since the connection – a fragile plastic line—can end at any time breaking the moment.
For me, life happens in that moment.
I used to wonder what the purpose of art is. It seemed outwardly such a useless occupation. A photographer, for instance conveys an image, a conceptually simple task finished at the press of a button; or take a composer, who scribbles notes on parchment. Perhaps art was defined in a mechanical skill, like wielding a paint brush or dribbling a soccer ball – measured by the difficulty of a feat. I had experienced art to some degree, however, and I realized there was something to it beyond the mechanical skill. I have found it to be the pursuit to create, in some cases to distill, make evident, or simply realize something’s essence. And so, perhaps an artist doesn’t pursue painting or sculpting, but something more meaningful.
Perhaps in English we misuse the term ‘art.’ We too often use it to identify a product. Art is a process, which sometimes produces a tangible product, but always a realization. Artisans are often designated as those who produce a tangible art product. The term could be expanded. For instance, a great artist directs his audience to the realization of the truth, consequently the audience experience to a lesser extent the realization that the artist had. In a way, the great artist is an audience to begin with, simply by observation, and by observation of nature or, say emotion, produces a work, say a symphony. Then there’s a secondary artist, the sort who masterfully wields an instrument, who, by observation of the notes on the page and an awareness of the great artists original realization might relive it. Consequently, there is a potential for artists of a tertiary who observe the music and through their awareness may, experience and appreciate – or rather realize – though to a lesser degree, the realizations of the first two. Thus everyone is a perpetual artist. My quality of life has come in part through this awareness – that I too am an artist.
The artist is the fisherman. The fly and how the fisherman presents it reflect his understanding of the world. His artistic ability is summed in his success to produce ‘the rise,’ or that moment of inspiration. If during that time between the rise and the net he doesn’t break the connection, he’ll land reality. It will never be as real to anyone else as it is to him. He can mount it on a wall but that kind of ‘art’ is a pale shadow of the real thing. Art lies in the journey – the journey, in the moment – the moment, outside of time.
