There was a time, not long ago, when I didn't know a thing about my self, or about the world around me. I was sort of wandering through my life, stuck somewhere between what I wanted to do and what I had to do. I was a non-traditional college student going to school at UW-Stevens Point for Wildlife Ecology, dedicating myself to my classes, trying to do my best to achieve good grades, and not exactly succeeding at doing so. I thought that I knew what I wanted to do with my life, but could not find the dedication to get to that point. Sooner or later, something had to give, and it did.
I had been away from formal education for about 6 years. I had spent that time bouncing around as a butcher, until I decided it was time to do something with my life. The only thing I had any passion for was the outdoors, but wasn't sure how to make a career out of it. As a matter of fact, I had no idea that I could make a career out of it. I began doing internet searches and realized that the best Natural Resources school in the country existed right at home in Wisconsin. I enrolled, which was easier than I thought it would be since I was a non-traditional student. I began my education at MATC in Madison, since it was close to home, and it was cheaper than a four-year school. I took a year's worth of college transfer courses, and in January of 2005, transferred to UWSP for Wildlife Ecology. In my first semester, I was struggling my way through introductory college math, and had no desire to continue. I felt that if I couldn't even complete this, there was no way for me to finish 3 more years of progressively more difficult courses. I was in serious need of a mental reset, and it came in the most unexpected way that I think it ever could have.
On a cold February Wednesday morning, I came to class early. The reason has escaped me at this time, and really isn't important anyway, but for whatever reason, I was early. I was standing in the hallway, and could overhear a couple of the other people from my class talking. One of them mentioned that, since the following weekend was the opening weekend of trout season, he was going trout fishing. This was a language that I understood, and I piped up, “where are you going?”. His response nearly floored me, “Richland County”. I instantly replied that Richland County was where I was from. He asked, “Do you know where Boaz is?”. Being from Boaz, I nearly fell over, not only because he fished near Boaz, but simply because he even knew that a town named Boaz actually existed in Richland County. We continued to talk, and ended up setting up a fishing adventure for opening weekend in my home stream, Mill Creek.
Now, before I go any further, let me digress. I grew up fishing Mill Creek...usually alone. Very few people even realized that Mill Creek still held trout when I was young, and even fewer ever ventured out to try fishing for them. The creek was about 300 yards behind my parent's house. The main branch flowed in a straight, channelized ditch that had been carved into the landscape and diked for flood control many, many years before I was even a thought in my parents' minds, and even before they were thoughts in my grandparents' minds. Even so, the stream still held large, fat brown and brook trout, with an occasional rainbow thrown into the mix to keep things interesting. The only competition I usually had for these fine fish were the cattle that waded across the crossings, lowing and probably wondering what I was thinking as much as most of the people around there did. Because I had no one to trout fish with, I grew up thinking it was right to trout fish alone, and was fine with it, but started to tire of the sport by the time I had reached adulthood.
But on that early-season day when my new friend Dale and I ventured out together to fish the Mill together, I began to realize the enjoyment of trout-fishing with someone. Watching someone else's smile when they hooked into a gorgeous brown or a bright, colorful brookie really made me realize the connection that I myself still had with the sport. After that trip, we set up another, and another, and soon, we were fishing together regularly, and not just trout. We began fishing for white bass, muskies, walleye, smallmouth, and pretty much whatever would bite. This re-instilled some vitality in me that had been lost. I didn't know anyone in Stevens Point, let alone having friends. Dale became my one connection back to the world that I was slowly beginning to want to leave behind.
At some point in the mix of our adventures, Dale decided to go take a fly-fishing course through the university. I was somewhat familiar with fly-fishing, and had attempted to fly-fish for panfish many times, and had occasionally been successful, but generally my ventures into the sport ended up with me being frustrated and closely resembling a penguin trying to take flight. Dale soon started tying flies and fly-fishing more frequently. He invited me over to show me how to tie a few flies several times, and I picked up what I could from his instruction. What intrigued me more than anything was the precision of the hand-tied flies in Dale's fly-boxes. This, more than anything made me want to learn to fly-fish. Something about the idea of beating mother nature at her own game really piqued my interest. I could sit for infinite amounts of time talking flies and marveling over his creations. We spent more time leaning over the fly-boxes than we ever had on the water, I think. The following semester, I was in need of an elective credit, and Dale recommended that I take the fly-fishing course to fill the credit. I considered it, and decided, “why not, it's an easy credit, and I guess I can stand to learn a little about fly-fishing.” I didn't expect what was about to occur in my life.
The first day of the course, it snowed about 12 inches, and the course was being held in Tomahawk, about an hour and a half north of Stevens Point. I drove the distance, through heavy snow, to the Treehaven field station, which is set back about a mile from any main road, and doesn't usually get plowed out until about a day after everything else. When I arrived at the field station, I was warmly greeted by John Heusinkveldt, the instructor, who told me I could stow my gear in the dorm, and that we would be meeting that evening for some videos and instruction. I was ready to learn, but with an air of “easy-A” in my mind. Instantly upon meeting John, I realized that there was going to be more to this course. John has the look of a man who has spent his life...not his free time, his life...on the water. He looks as comfortable with a fly-rod in his hand as most people do with shoes on their feet, or a hat on their head. When he began casting instruction, I became mesmerized. The rod appeared to be an extension of his arm, and it flowed as though it was some connecting tissue between his hand and the air. In my mind, I later realize now, that what I was seeing was the perfect marriage of technology and nature. It was this instant that I became in tune with what the class was really about. It wasn't about an easy A, and it wasn't just instruction, it was about learning the inner-workings of the sport, about the method behind the madness.
By the time I finished the 3 day course, I had learned to make my arm flow somewhat in the fashion that I had seen performed by John. I had learned to tie proper knots to attach a fly, to connect leaders to tippets and line to leaders. I could determine when to use certain types of flies, and even learned how to use some of those flies. I fully felt I was ready to tackle the fly-fishing world with full force. I even stopped on my way home from Tomahawk at a Gander Mountain and bought a new rod and reel so that I could look the part. I was addicted, and what more, I was set from head to toe, and couldn't wait to hit the water. During the class, we had gotten the opportunity to fish the mighty Prairie and Wisconsin Rivers, and I thought, if I can handle those, I can handle anything. What didn't dawn on me was that these were both big, open rivers, with lots of casting space, and less room for anything to get caught up on.
The following weekend, I drove home to Richland County, and instantly headed for the Mill. I began casting, and flailing my rod around, forgetting everything I had been taught. I was becoming ever more frustrated, and wanted to just give up. I sat down on a rock, angry, wondering why I had wasted my time and money learning this stupid sport and buying the equipment. I reached down, picked up a rock out of the stream, and was about to toss it angrily into a prime pool in protest to the fish that had so rudely refused to take my fly. As my hand was coming back, I saw something moving on the rock. I stopped and looked closely at the rock, and there, on a flat spot on the bottom, was a small cluster of olive colored caddis larvae. I sat and stared at them, placing the rock just under the surface of the water, so that the larvae wouldn't die in the cold air. As I watched them, the only sound in my ears was the rush of the water over and around the rocks I was sitting on. The reflection of the sun on the water danced in the corner of my eye, and the brisk air around me filled my lungs. I sat and thought for quite some time about what was occurring around me. Rather than tossing the rock, I placed it back into the stream, with a smile on my face, and thought about how peaceful, how serene this sight was. For just a moment, even though I knew it wasn't true, I felt like I was standing in a place that no man had ever seen, hearing, seeing, smelling things that had never been experienced before that moment.
Shortly afterward, Dale and I began talking fly-fishing every chance we had. We swapped fly recipes, swapped stories and pictures, but rarely ever got to fish together, anymore. Our friendship continued to become stronger, though, and whenever we got together to hang out, the stories always turned to the fly, and eventually, we ended up hunched over each others fly-boxes, talking about what had been working for us, and what hadn't. Over the past few years, fishing trips together have become a rare occurrence, and our conversations less frequent, but still we remain friends. Because of this friendship, I have had the opportunity to talk about and experience some of the most unbelievable sights, sounds and smells that a person could imagine. I've been to some of the most pristine places in some of the most beautiful streams in the state, and in the country, and caught some of the most beautiful fish that the mind can imagine from them.
When I look back now, I admit to not really paying attention to the importance of what had really occurred through the friendship that had developed with Dale. Sure, I learned how to fly-fish, how to beat a fish at it's own game, how to tie a few flies. What I realize now is that the most important things I learned really had very little to do with fishing. I began to see things differently, to notice how everything was connected and how it related not only to the fish and the world around it, but to me. This in turn made me want to learn as much as I possibly could about the natural world and the interactions that existed in it. My grades jumped and my GPA began to climb as soon as I began fly-fishing. I became more outgoing, more at peace with my life, and more open to new experiences that I had previously shied away from. Most importantly, I learned about myself. I learned that what really mattered was stopping and taking that look around, taking the whole world into account. Rather than looking at what was going wrong, I began to look at what was going right, and how I fit into that. All in all, I guess I found my place in the stream, and when I look back, I realize now that where it all began was with a great friend and a box of bugs.
