OPINION
A good indicator for a slow fishing trip is when you look forward to hooking a tree branch. The water’s been so still for so long, that a tight line is a tight line, regardless of what’s on the other end. I recently took a trip to the legendary Lake Fork for two days of fishing and the bite for “tree pounders” was hot, along with a grand total of two bass— both of which added up to about half a pound.
Unsurprisingly, I got to thinking about failure on the two-hour drive. I’m not sure if Lake Fork has changed or I’ve gotten worse at fishing, but this is the third straight trip to where I would’ve been better off fishing a farm pond with a hay fork. So, why do I keep coming back? I’d love to say it’s because I love being in nature and spending time with friends—which is true—but any angler will tell you that they’re in it to catch fish. Period.
The same goes for hunters. If we were only in it for the community, we’d start cycling or (God forbid) golfing. Instead, I choose to bowhunt for whitetails on public land, arguably the most difficult form of hunting out there. Statistics show that the success rate for bowhunters is about 20 percent and I’m here to tell you that number is astronomically high for me. I’m sub 10 percent, I’m sure.
If you’re a hunter or angler, you’re an optimist. You have to be. We operate under the belief that some life-changing fish is after the very next cast or a 200-inch whitetail is about to emerge from the brush, nostrils flaring and tail twitching. If you need any more proof of my own optimism, I’m getting excited for October just writing that sentence knowing full well that those imaginary trophy bucks will merge with reality in the form of spikes and yearlings.
The question is, were we optimists to begin with, or have years of failure forged us into hardened optimists?
Maybe our foolhardy spirit is simply the fuel that keeps us moving towards that elusive trophy, whatever it may be. In my younger years, I’d let a fruitless day on the water or in the woods ruin my day, maybe even my weekend. I’d threaten to give it up. I’d yell and bark at the wildlife for not cooperating. Then, I’d go home, cool off a bit, and get better. Better at being a sportsman but also better at being a failure—they may be one and the same.
The late, great fishing writer John Gierach once said, “Maybe your stature as a fly fisherman isn't determined by how big a trout you can catch, but by how small a trout you can catch without being disappointed.” I’d take it one step further and replace “small” with “few.” These days, I’ve learned to make peace with my own ineptitude because I know the glory of nature will point it out to me over and over again. Those fish don’t want to be caught. Those deer don’t want to be ambushed by a hunter. If they did, maybe we wouldn’t feel the same about setting up the tree stand in October, awaiting more hardearned lessons from God’s creation.
Unless you spend time out there, you won’t know what I’m talking about. If you’ve never hunted or fished, I’d encourage you to grab a fishing license and set a goal for catching a limit of white bass at Ray Roberts or attempt to put a dent in that thriving feral pig population that’s wreaking havoc on local farms. It’s easy to get started. Being successful? Maybe not. But, when you sweat and swear and curse the wildlife for doing what they do best, you’ll either become a better person or you’ll quit. It’s the great test of the hunter and angler.
And, if you do hunt and fish, know that the only thing you can do is be optimistic. Use those failures as an opportunity to show you why you really love these pursuits—you love it because of the difficulty, not in spite of it. Our optimism abounds in spite of reality, which may be the definition of crazy, but at least we’re all crazy together. Mr. Gierach had something to say about that, too: “If people don't occasionally walk away from you shaking their heads, you're doing something wrong.”
Based on my family’s reaction to my Lake Fork trip, I’m on the right track. In fact, I wasn’t fully up front about the success of that particular trip. I did catch two bass, but I didn’t mention that one of them was no longer than one inch long— barely identifiable as a fish at all. You may also be surprised to hear that I had a big smile plastered across my face. Why? With a fish that small, the next one’s got to be bigger.
Steve Schwartz is an outdoors writer, photographer and filmmaker. He can be reached at [email protected].
