I don’t need to change my strings
‘Cause the dirt don’t hurt the way I sing
—Sturgill Simpson, “Living the Dream”
Just this morning, I finally faked my way into the Vatican, only for two high priests to shatter all my notions about the meaning of life by proclaiming there is no God. Well, not exactly, but it was close. Two writing anglers I respect suggested fishing in general, and fly fishing in particular, weren’t the keys to a parlor of shaman-style spiritual awareness. They didn’t use words like ethereal, mystical, graceful, or purposeful to describe the sport. Nope. They used words like boring, dumb, stupid, and foolish. It was as if they didn’t think tying a hook on a string, wrapping the string around a spool, convincing another being to put the hook in its mouth, and then pulling it to your side was something a person should spend ten thousand hours mastering. “If you’re born with the talent, great. But if you spend tens of thousands of hours and dollars to become a highly accomplished fly angler, you’re a lunatic,” one of the high priests said.
Now, both of these guys frequently drive or fly to distant destinations for the chance to drag a fish to their side, so I know I can learn something valuable from their dialogue. The insight priests acquire from years of swinging censers allows them to see three-dimensional shapes in the places we apprentices see only a seemingly random array of dots. Could it be that gently releasing a trout after scaring the living hell out of it isn’t an act in a primeval play where anglers discover the dark depths of their inner consciousness? Is it possible that rather than being Mr. Miyagi-like sanseis guiding us toward perspective and awareness each time we catch and release them, the fish are more like Clint Eastwood’s Walt Kowalski pointing a bolt-action rifle in our faces, inviting us to get the hell off their damn lawn?
That’s a lot to unpack on a Thursday morning. I used to overthink things like this, but lately, I’ve tried to avoid asking questions that have questions for answers—what we educators like to call the Socratic method. But today, I had a backslide.
Ring . . . Ring . . . Ring . . .
Socrates: Socrates here. Go!
Me: Hey, Socrates, why did my angling friends say fly fishing is boring, stupid, and dumb?
Socrates: Is it the pursuit of fish or the journey that holds meaning for them?
Me: Well, I guess it’s about the journey, but why do they still call it dumb?
Socrates: Might they find value in the simplicity and the challenge rather than the catch itself?
Me: So, you’re saying it’s more about the challenge than the actual fish?
Socrates: Is not the fish merely a symbol, a transient goal in the greater quest for mastery and self-discipline?
Me: But why do they spend so much time and money on something they consider dumb and so . . . trivial?
Socrates: Is any pursuit truly trivial if it brings one joy and enlightenment, even if it appears mundane to others?
Me: Joy and enlightenment from tricking a fish? Really?
Socrates: Is joy not often found in the simplest activities and enlightenment in understanding one’s passions?
Me: I suppose, but isn’t calling fly fishing dumb a bit harsh?
Socrates: Could it be their way of humbling themselves, acknowledging the paradox of finding depth in what seems superficial?
Me: So, fly fishing is both dumb and profound?
Socrates: Is it not possible to be both, depending on one’s perspective and what they seek from it?
Me: How can catching a fish be so complicated?
Socrates: Is it the fish that is complicated or our understanding of why we pursue it?
You see, Socrates likes self-licking ice cream cones, Kafkaesque bureaucracies, and is a big fan of the movie Groundhog Day. Still, there’s a lot to think about here, and at about noon, I get the hang of answering questions with questions.
Me: So, Socrates, I’ve spent tens of thousands of dollars over the years on fly rods, and I have an unhealthy stack of them in the corner of my office to prove it. Is it wrong to spend so much on such a trivial pursuit?
Socrates: Does the value of an object lie in its cost or in the fulfillment it brings its user?
Me: But could I not catch fish with one or two simple rods, perhaps even a Tenkara rod?
Socrates: Oh God, no, not Tenkara! But back to the point, is the catching of the fish the goal?
Me: Isn’t that why I go fishing? (Who’s licking their own ice cream cone now?)
Socrates: Do you not find pleasure in the simplicity of casting a fly line?
Me: Yes, but would I not find more pleasure in casting that fly line better?
Socrates: What is the path you seek to better casting?
Me: Well, my lines are old and dirty. Wouldn’t one of those new AST PLUS lines help?
Socrates: You mean the ones with a floating texture on the tip and a shooting texture on the running line?
Me: Yes. Would not my cast roll out toward the fish in a graceful, poetic loop if I had one of those lines?
Socrates: I say ’no’ to what you ask, Tim. You see, the dirt don’t hurt the way you cast.
Click . . . Dial tone.
I prefer it when the smart-ass father of Western philosophy answers my questions with questions. And I always liked Aristotle better, anyway. Now, where’s his number?
