Global Wandering

Henry's Fork

I have lived in the flyfishing mecca for five years now. People come from around the globe to fish the rivers and streams just a stone's throw from my house. I have bought a box of flies in Jackson, taken a casting class with my son, purchased books on the best fishing spots along the Henry's Fork, consulted local guides and fishermen and both watched and read A River Runs Through It.

But I haven't caught a fish because I've never gone flyfishing.

I am what they call a theoretical fisherman. I like to dream about standing in the river and watching the rise of the midge hatch and the trout jump. I can see the osprey soar overhead, hear the distant call of the sandhill crane and feel the tug of a rainbow trout on my line. It is a perfect picture. One I don't want to spoil by actually fishing and finding out the water is frigid even with waders on, that my feet tire after thirty minutes of balancing on river rock with twenty miles per hour winds blowing. That I won't catch a trout, because I am in fact the world's worst fisherman, having proven that many times over, especially during the week I spent in Canada in lakes where the pike hadn't seen a fisherman in decades and were hopping into my friends' canoes, sometimes even dispensing with the whole get captured on the lure enterprise. Yet they ignored my line. Real pike and trout can sense amateurs and avoid the shame of being caught by one.

So I tell myself I will fish when I am sixty and I'll buy a pretty red boat like the one above. I'll let it float along, and I'll lean back and watch the osprey soar. Sometimes I might even cast my line just so I can say I've gone fishing.