Teach a man to fish? Sounds easier than it really is

With spring, many a man’s hearts turn to, well, fishing.

Not me, mind you, but some men. I see them standing in a distant corner of Wal-Mart for hours, looking at nymphs, zug bugs and woolly buggers, blue wings and royal damsel larvae. What sound like nicknames you’ve given your inlaws are really the names of popular hand-tied fishing flies.

Fishing has always been a substantive yet ethereal goal for me. Substantive, in that it feels desireable, feels like something I would like to have in my life. It feels idealic, holistic, a chance to slow down, ponder deep philosophies and have no one give you a hard time about it. Desirable, like playing the harmonica or being a good father. But also ethereal in that it is unattainable.

I am best described as a hard-luck fisherman. Example: I remember as a youth wearing chest waders that felt a size or two too big, standing among the reeds in a gentle-sloping reservoir, balancing a rod and reel, while trying to find a semi-solid place to stand. My dad was nearby, setting the pattern for fishing success. He cast his bubble and fly. A perfect arc. Bubble and fly (probably a yellow-bellied bead-head nymph, whatever that is) plopped a fair distance away. He gently, slowly reels in the set (bobber perfectly partially filled with water to give it that just-so weight), with it’s trailing lead line and fly. Within seconds, a fiesty trout nabs the nymph and the purpose for which we came is fulfilled.

This is what man should be able to do. It’s a derivative of a primitive urge to hunt and provide for your family and dominate an inferior species. And to build fire and all that. All of these neanderthal forces cause the average male — hey, that’s me! — to innately suspect that they surely must love fishing; they can do this manly activity.

Back at the serene reservoir, it is now my turn. Holding my finger in just the right way on the reel, I slowly prepare for the perfect cast. Forward I toss my right arm. I let go of the fishing filament at the precise instant. My left foot slides off the slippery sort-of-flat rock that I had chosen to stand on. I slip and stagger, but recover quickly. My chest waders are now less than an inch above the water line. I manage to take my eyes off this dangerous water level and watch my bubble and fly. A perfect arc, a gentle flight, just as planned.

Snap.

The bubble and fly continue out to the middle of the reservoir while the line from my rod waves in the wind. To this day I cannot explain why every cast I made would end up losing yet another bubble and a humpy yellow elk hair green drake red head trout fly.

The reservoir water is coming perilously close to pouring in, but I’m certain that I can keep the wader’s rim just out of trouble. But as I fumble to find another bubble and fly, I am sensing cold water in my crotch. I am sensing cold water running down my leg.

I’m thinking, yes, this is exciting, but I didn’t have an “accident,” did I? Nay, it turns out the waders were “repaired” with some goop guaranteed to be waterproof and to “make like new” small tears in “rubber fishing apparel.” Before long, my left leg is officially saturated, so I give some sign language distress signals to my dad (loud talking in the middle of the sancutary-like reservoir is a no-no – this I have already picked up on) and he suggests I should go try fishing from shore.

That’s a plan. I balance the rod above the water line, turn to go to shore and start to “walk.” My right boot has found some quicksand-like mud that grips my wader in a death grip and my foot comes right out. OK. Left leg filling with water; right leg stuck in cement. Mosquitoes by the score delighting in my predicament and feasting on my neck and face, knowing I can’t do a thing. Can’t drop the rod and reel.

Neanderthal desires waning. Yup, a hard-luck fisherman.

And don’t get me started telling you about fishing for salmon off the choppy waters of San Francisco Bay. Let’s just say most of the day was spent “chumming” with what little was had for breakfast that morning.

It’s been said that if you give a man a fish, you feed him for a day; teach him how to fish and you feed him for life. Or something like that. That quote has been attributed to everyone from Confucius to Nephi, it seems, but I prefer some of the altered versions people have stuck on the end of that axiom: Teach a man how to fish and …

… and you’ve gotten rid of him for the entire weekend.

… and you can sell him all kinds of equipment.

… and he learns to covet your boat.

… and he’ll be late for supper.

… then he can sell fish and eat some steak.

Utah has an annual Free Fishing Day in June. My grandson is probably old enough that we should try to teach this little man how to fish. He has to be better at it than I am.

I wonder if my dad still has those waders.

(This column was originally published in the Ogden Standard-Examiner on May 14, 2007.)