Day 2- Spring Creek Redux

To call this Day 2 is actually a misnomer. I went fishing last Sunday, last Friday AND this morning. Last Sunday, I went alone. Last Friday, my friend, let’s call him Jason, and I turned another friend (he can get a name if he comes again) onto fly fishing and this morning… well this morning was breathtaking.

View from the Banks 1- 645am

I woke up at 550am, a little groggy. Tea doesn’t give a hangover, but hanging out until midnight certainly makes an early wake-up call the more difficult. Picked up Jason, coffee at Sheetz (interesting gas station, Sheetz), make a right on Shiloh Rd, go down to the dark canyon. The sun had not yet graced us with its presence. This made wearing my wet shorts from Friday, which had not yet dried, a rather chilling experience. Wading with knee high rubber boots at 645 am, in a damp canyon, still wearing wet shorts, was likewise problematic.

View from the Banks 2- 645 am also

Jason and I went straight for a spot we found Friday. We knew there were trout there, and we observed the smooth surface water, disturbed occasionally by the current creating small whirlpools. There is no guarantee that there would be fish there, but the width of the stream and its relative remoteness make it a great place to warm up casting. I saw some feeding yesterday just below the surface water, so I take out a wet fly (ants work well) and tie it to my rod. I practice my roll cast to avoid losing my fly in the thickets behind me. The surface water breaches, and my ant disappears. I tighten my rod… too early, the fly pops right out, and I lost my fish.

I spent the rest of the trip (until 945am, and my typical American breakfast) thinking about the sunrise slowly lighting up the canyon, about my breath becoming less and less visible, and it suddenly dawned on me that I could not feel my feet.  Jason described his feet as comfortably numb… mine weren’t comfortable, just numb.

We hit the second spot we really wanted to fish after two hours. I didn’t think there would be many bites. The fish were cruising counter current (you could see them, there may have been thirty or forty), and I had learned many years, at Sommedieue, that trout that does this is oxygenating and not feeding. I was not hopeful. We came back, “broucouille, comme on le dit dans le Bouchonois,” but in good spirits.

Fra Lorenzo

Jason keeps saying that being out on the river is a meditative experience. And he is absolutely correct. I am not fishing to catch a fish (I can go buy a trout at the local market, more sustainable). I am casting, understanding a river, its cycles, the nature around it, absorbing the beauty of my surroundings, enjoying the simplicity of pleasure (mind you that simplicity costs at least 400$ to get started…): a sunray warming the air, the dew dispelling from above the river, and most importantly, the company of other fishermen.

I was reflecting on something the Dalai Lama said (not Made-in-Taiwan… reference for my francophone friends). He was asked by a psychologist:

-Are you ever lonely?

-No

The psychologist was taken aback. The Dalai Lama’s answer hinged on brotherhoods: you can find company if you look just a little. Today, on the river, Jason and I were asked by two other fishermen about flies used, bites, gave us advice. Total strangers… I had never seen them before, and I doubt that I ever will see them again. But we will always be in the same company. I began to think more. A quote from Anthony Grafton’s book on the footnote came to mind: “Prefatory notes evoke a Republic of Letters, in which the writer claims membership. In fact they often describe something much more tenuous, the group of those who the author wishes had read his work, offered him references, or at least given him the time of day (p.7).” In a way, my work allows me to claim membership in a group of people: graduate students, scholars of my department, scholars in my field, scholars past, and scholars future. And of course, my friends, my family. 

And then, it dawned on me. I miss Jessica tremendously, but I have not been alone a second since the breakup. And for that I am grateful.

Day 1- Spring Creek, PA

Maybe I should not be writing so soon after I am done fishing (I called it a day about two hours ago). I am not sure what kind of conclusions one can draw so soon after an experience. But, if there is one thing my break up has taught me: when something is not working, you don’t have to work on it, you can just stop doing whatever it is you are doing. Basically, if my contemplations have not matured, I will wait.

I decided that I would take a friend. I taught him to fish the way I learned how: steady movements between 10 and 1 o’clock, and release when you are ready to put your line down.

I got up at 6am. The last time I was up at 6am on a Saturday, I had not slept. I called my friend, and he was up. I picked him up at 645, just in time for the sun to rise. We drove to Spring Creek, put a fly on the rod and we started fishing just after 730 (we had to go to Walmart to get a fishing license).

The road had curved into a canyon, a hunting reserve (I felt like prey for a second down there). The water was perfectly clear, a little bit cold, especially when it flooded my rubber boots. I began to cast, slowly at first, trying to recover the rhythm, the feel of the fly line pushing my leader and tippet away from the rod and into the water. 10 o’clock, 1 o’clock (watch out for the tree behind you… there goes a fly), and again…

At the end of the day, I didn’t catch a single fish, I lost a fly in a tree (I knew this would happen) and my line got tangled only twice. Not too bad (last time I fished, I went through seven flies in four hours).

A cigarette (I know…) later, and I was in the car with my friend driving to Cracker Barrel for breakfast: I had my very first biscuit and gravy (one of the numerous things my ex-girlfriend said she’d do for me and didn’t) together with a traditional American breakfast.

I am not entirely sure what I learned, but in the end, I was just enjoying the company, being out on the water. I think I may do this when I wake up in the morning feeling like I miss her, as it is unavoidable. But today, I was out in the silent hills, alone with nature (and three other fishermen, so I guess not that alone, unless solitude with other people still counts as solitude). The stream washed away my worries, and they will come back, but the river told me: “come back when you need, I will wash away your burdens again, and again.”

Lessons learned:

1)      I really enjoy fly fishing

2)      An American breakfast is as good as it is unhealthy

3)      I had a really good start to my day.

Day 0

About three weeks ago, I received a phone call. I was at the Detroit airport, in transit from France heading to State College, Pennsylvania. I had been awake for over forty-eight hours. I was returning from my father’s 50^th birthday. It was an amazing banquet. I would describe the feast, but it would detract from the point… o what the hell: it’s worth a read. But close your eyes and imagine.

We started the evening with a brouillade de truffe, an egg based dish layered with truffles. Then, I had lamb, with vegetables, followed by an assortment of local cheeses (the tome Provençale is always a good choice), and cakes with a pistachio flavored crème anglaise. It was a great evening, concluded with rifle shooting at the local fair.

Fast forward. I pick up the call:

-Hi sweetheart.

-When are you getting home?

My heart shattered then. Whatever had happened, whatever would happen, my seven-year relationship was over. I cannot say that I was too surprised, but all the same, my relationship ended that day. Her visit the following week-end confirmed the fact.

A new chapter needs to open. I flew to San Francisco. In those cases, family helps. I talked, I cried, I was angry, I was sad. The range of emotions is stifling. Needless to say, my ability to work has been seriously compromised. While in San Francisco, I saw what is perhaps the worst movie I have seen in years (ok, maybe not the worst; that distinction goes to Megashark vs. Crocosaurus): the Bourne Legacy (nice actors, nice special effects, but the plot is the same as the Bourne Identity, except worse).

While the new Bourne (whose name escapes me) was running around in Alaska, I began thinking about what was happening to me. This is an opportunity to stand tall again, to not let my life be dictated by someone else but me, to not compromise on choices, and to have the career the way I intend it. Not that I was told what to do, but decisions are always made with the other in mind.  At any rates, I saw myself in the wild, doing something I had always wanted to do again since I was a little boy: fly fishing.

I am currently residing in State College, Pennsylvania, one of the best fly fishing area in the United States (I hope to make it to Montana). After the Bourne movie, I picked up a compass, drew a three-hundred miles radius and I will pick the best spots to fly fish. Each week, I will try a new one. After the ten days, it will be time to move on with my life, and explore new things. So far, I have picked

1/ Spring Creek

2/ Penn’s Creek

3/ Ithaca Falls

4/ Delaware River

5/ Lake Eerie

Any suggestions are welcome for the remaining five.

I will blog this journey to self-discovery. Each week a new locale, each week a new story.

I bought my rod today, and a set of flies for Spring Creek. I stepped outside of my apartment on the lawn, and tried to cast. I am particularly rusty. I don’t plan on catching a single fish during my ten weeks. 

I remember the words of Norman Maclean: “The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops.” There are elements in this world that are bigger than I am, and resisting their call is useless. I am called by the river, it has something to teach me, and I, its willing student, will listen, and share.