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Last Sunday, after five tortuous weeks of being miserably sick with pneumonia and bronchitis and sinusitis and God knows what else, I spent the day in southern Minnesota with my fly rod in hand, plying a snow-lined emerald green river for brown trout. It was one of those rare occasions where I spent just as much time in the vehicle traveling to and from my destination than I actually spent fishing. To be completely honest, it worked out that I drove a total of six hours to fish for five hours. I don’t suppose a fact like that would make much sense to a rational and sane person, but believe me, after pacing back and forth in our house like a caged animal for weeks on end, the precious time I spent on the water more than justified the lengthy drive.

I arrived at the river just before noon, shut off the truck and began the detailed process of rigging up. I noticed that my hands were trembling as I worked the fly line through the rod’s guides and attempted to thread a small nymph on the line’s tippet. This is an uncontrollable physical condition I’ve suffered since childhood, brought on by being in close proximity to water just prior to fishing it. I believe the Latin words for this incurable malady are “handquaverus fishitis.” It’s one of a precious few good and desired “itises” out there.

Something unique to stream trout fishing that you don’t experience with other forms of angling is the fact that you must carry every–– and I mean every––essential piece of equipment with you. If you’re a mile from your vehicle and suddenly discover that you forgot some doohickey or other item paramount to your success on the water, you have to make one of two choices: you either hoof it back to where you started from for whatever it was you stupidly left sitting on the bumper of your truck or attempt to fish without it. I discovered on Sunday, after hiking a fair distance from my vehicle to the river, that I couldn’t find my case of micro-split shot in my fly vest. The plastic case full of small round lead weights makes a very distinctive sound when you shake it, so after checking all 17 pockets of my fly vest––twice––I actually jumped up and down repeatedly like a fool while listening in vain for that telltale rattle before admitting to myself that it simply wasn’t there. During the winter months, trout occupy the deep holes and runs in a river, so winter fishing with a subsurface nymph for trout without additional weight is nothing more than an exercise in futility. Back to the truck I went, muttering awful things to myself for a few hundred steps along the way. For the remainder of the trek I convinced myself that the walk and exercise would do me good. No sense allowing a little box of lead weights to ruin a perfectly good trip.

Thank goodness that was the only setback I experienced that day. The weather was good, the fishing even better, and best of all, the solitude nourished my soul and recharged my batteries following a long stretch of illness and inactivity. I didn’t see another person on the river, which is just fine by me. If given a choice, I’d much rather catch fewer fish alone than have to leapfrog numerous anglers for more fish. Of course, that line of thinking and practice almost forces me to carry and document my exploits with a digital camera. If a guy takes too many solitary trips without producing some evidence that he caught fish, others, particularly fellow anglers, tend to insist on proof of a successful outing. If an angler really can’t be trusted to tell the truth, it’s an understood expectation that he use the time and date feature on his camera. Nobody has demanded that of me––yet.

The headline of this article might seem far-fetched, but as far as I’m concerned, it isn’t too far off the mark. Honestly, I doubt there’s been a continuous two-week stretch in my life that I haven’t fished. Moping around the house for five weeks seemed like an indeterminable prison sentence. It’s not like I have a glass-encased cyanide pill concealed in a hollow tooth or anything as drastic as that, but I do get pretty edgy and desperate when I’m forced to part company with my finny friends for any extended period of time. There are plenty of people in my life that will attest to that fact.

Of course this fishing trip didn’t literally save my life, but it was a much-needed activity that defines my life and who I am. It was satisfying to witness the fly line gracefully loop through the air and feel the heft of a good brown trout in the net again. Isaac Walton wrote in his 1653 work, The Compleat Angler: “Fishing isn’t merely about fishing, but about life. Or rather, it is about fishing––but fishing is life.” Now there is a true statement that has stood the test of time. I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Dan Brown’s weekly outdoor column is brought to you by Frankie’s Bait and Marine, in Chisago City, and St. Croix Outdoors, in St. Croix Falls, Wis.

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