For me, fishing is church. The water is where I find my spirituality. I know many people find theirs in church, or from a book, or in a specific dogma, but none of that has ever worked for me. The water—the glorious water—is where I go to find my interpretation of God.
When I wade a river or creek, the water speaks to me. That might sound strange to some, but when I am a mile or more from my car, hip-deep in a remote stream, I am filled with a peace that I’ve never been able to find anywhere else. I love the actual fishing part of the equation—it’s why I’m there, after all—but the spiritual awakening that occurs is purely sublime. When I’m in a river or creek, I’m not just fishing—I am immersed in nature. I feel as though I am connecting with something bigger than me.
There are times when I’m in a river that I will stop, clip my rod to hook on my vest, then dangle both hands into the water while looking up at the sky and/or the leafy canopy made by the trees above me. That, my friends, is where I find it.
When I hear people talk about their gods, of this religion or that one, I often think that I am broken. While I have been surrounded by organized religion my entire life, it has never made sense to me. When I say that, I don’t mean it in a pejorative fashion. I am genuinely happy for those who do find a real degree of peace from religion— and I respect it—but I’ve just never been able to find that same comfort in a purely religious sense. To use a radio analogy in which religion is the broadcast and I am the radio, I feel as though my speaker is simply broken. The power is on and I’m tuned to the right station, but the signal just isn’t coming through.
Thankfully, the water fills that spiritual void. There are times when I am on or in the water, I stop and just think. I’m not fishing or moving or talking or thinking. For a time, I am just being. It’s in those moments, those precious moments, that I find peace. I’ve just never been able to carry that peace with me when I leave the water. In recent years, reading about eastern philosophy has helped, but nothing the Buddha said has ever reached me in the way the sunlight dancing off the water or the rhythmic sounds of water running over stones always does.
Clearly, I still have much work to do on my spiritual journey. It’s the perfect excuse to go fishing more often anyway.
Unfortunately, spine and hip issues have prevented me from wading safely for several years now. I am able to find a good deal of spiritual connection to the water – and to a larger sense of being—while I am fishing from my boat, but it’s just not the same. Don’t get me wrong, I am closer to God—or nature, or whatever—while seated in the bow of my boat than I am at any other time, but the connection doesn’t feel as pure. It’s a Live vs. Memorex thing for me, I guess.
I hope to get back to the rivers after my newly installed titanium parts and chunks of donor bone are done knitting with my OEM equipment. That is if my bride doesn’t choke me for choosing the danger of wading over fishing from my boat. In any event, be it via wading or via fishing from my boat, I hope to once again find that mainline connection to my spirituality. For now, however, I’ll take the Memorex version that I get from the bow of The Crappie Queen (my noble aquatic steed).
It’ll have to do…
(This post’s title is a quote from Norman Maclean’s A River Runs Through It.)
