As I write, birds are chirping outside the window.  The air is still cold and the truck doors were frozen shut this morning when I went out to crank it before taking the kids to school.  Yesterday’s rains and last nights temps, left a glaze over the trees, bridges, and random items left in the yard by my girls.  It’s still winter early in the morning, but spring is breaking through in the afternoons.  For the past week blue quills, blue winged olives, quill gordons, and early brown stones have been hatching in the forest.  Some fish are rising, but there are not yet enough bugs to get them all on the program.  I’ve been able to talk a few into a well placed fly on top, and had a few friends and family members out for “fun trips”  to knock the rust off the guiding skills before the season starts.  

Tomorrow is March 1st and the beginning of March is bitter sweet for me.  It’s the end of all hunting seasons (not that I did a great job taking advantage of them this past winter), its the beginning of fishing season (not the height of it, it’s still tough), and it’s the beginning of the Delayed Harvest season.  By the end of the week the state will have trucked thousands of pounds of freshly grown trout to various rivers in our area that “do not support wild populations.”  Some of these rivers will be open to fishing from the moment the water chickens hit the river, while others will open  to fishing the first Saturday in April, giving the state ample time to ensure that they are filled to the brim with planted fish before unleashing the spectacle of opening day.

Opening day is a day I always try to avoid being on the water, but if Im being honest the absurdity of it doesn’t really bother me that much.  It’s silly sure, but at least those fish are going home with someone, out of the river, and into a cooler where they belong.  This ‘bring your own rock” type of fishing has its appeal.  It’s a party.  It’s a state funded party meant to pacify the populous and offer them a distraction from, and some mitigation for, a host of ecological, financial, and social grievances; but it is fun in its own way.  It’s kind of like the office Christmas party where everyone gets drunk and/or laid; instead of dental and eye care in their health insurance plan.   Say what you like about the combat fishing on hatchery supported waters on opening day, but least it’s honest.  Everyone knows what the game is and what will be the eventual fate of their quarry.  Delayed Harvest is a totally different animal. 

Sometime in the first week of March the state will begin to stock, what they consider rivers lacking in natural production, with numerous pounds of farm raised fish.  These are fish designed and engineered (yes, I said designed and engineered) through selective breeding to survive and grow well in a hatchery environment.  They are also selected to be aggressive and easy to catch.  Catch rates are important in the consideration of which fish to stock, which is why you don’t see as many brown trout stocked as rainbows and brook trout.  These fish exist to benefit anglers, local economies, politicians, and as a subsidy for guides and outfitters that either lack the skill or work ethic to pursue natural fisheries.  Catch rates and anglers satisfaction are high on these waters.  The fish are fat and dumb, though not that much to look at.  That being said, beauty is in the eye of the beholder and one person’s tastes may not be another.  For this same reason, some think a meal of chicken nuggets is a delicious treat at  2 a.m., after leaving the bar with their prize for the night. 

Our idea of success in fishing has become a bit twisted, just as our idea of value at a restaurant, or acceptability in a companion for the evening may become twisted.  If you’re leaving the bar at 2 you’ve probably had a few, and that kind of indiscretion can be overlooked.  Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.  When it comes to fish and food (same thing), one cannot blame the distortions of inebriation (well maybe some can).  

Think about it.  Your meal is going to cost you 15 to 20 bucks.  Do you want a quality experience with well prepared food that is healthy for you? Or, do want a buffet slathered in gravy and MSG with no limits but the elasticity of your gut?   Plenty would choose the latter, and I will not pass judgment.  However, if you show up to the “ALL YOU CAN EAT” dressed in your finest attire, speaking poor French, and asking to see the wine list; you can rest assured judgment will be passed, and you will be found absurd.  

Yet we see this everyday on the water.  Anglers dressed to the nines with thousand dollar rods, boxes full of fly selections ready to take on a western spring creek, seventy thousand dollar pickups and SUVs complete with rods vaults and a stickers from every manufacturer in the biz, a vest or hip pack so overladen they can barely walk, a two hundred dollar carbon fiber net for gods sake; all this to catch a mess of planted fish released just a few hours or days before.  All this to catch a fish that likely will not survive the month, even if left  unmolested by hooks.  All this to hang an egg and a worm below a bobber and repeatedly plunk it into the head of the run with minimal skill or grace.  

Call me an elitist if you want.  Maybe I am.  Maybe I like going to the all you can eat every now and then, maybe I chase a stocked fish every now and then too.  But I don’t eat the buffet every day, and I don’t pretend it’s Haute cuisine when I do.  When I fish for a stocker I know exactly what I’m doing and, if the regs allow, I know exactly what’s going to happen to it if it hits the net.  Sometimes it’s fun to stuff oneself to the gills with bad food, and sometimes it’s fun to run over to the stocked water and practice a hook set.  Sometimes.

Sometimes though, sometimes is rarely sometimes. Especially when we’ve allowed ourselves to be convinced that our “sometimes” thing is preferable and an acceptable experience.  Sometimes we allow ourselves to be fooled into thinking that eating from the salad bar and smothering it all in chunks of ham and blue cheese ranch is a healthy option.  Sometimes we allow ourselves to believe that we are on the stocked water to teach and its good for beginners.  Sometimes we tell ourselves that these fish are no different and the customer still had a great experience.  Sometimes we find ourselves right back in the same hole we were in last month, week, year, yesterday and wonder where the romance went.  Sometimes we allow the dishonest experience of stocked fish to make us jaded with the whole business or sport of fishing and just dig our heels in because we have wrapped our identity up in it and don’t know what else to do.  Sometimes we listen to the marketing from those who benefit from our pursuit of, and desire for, stocked fish and easy fishing; whether that be from the fishing industry, the state wildlife agencies, the county commissioners, or our boss, and we just go all limp and mushy like that fat, washed out soulless piece of flesh gasping in our net.  

Fishing is a luxury.  Fishing is a pursuit of what is elusive and other worldly.  Fishing is failing.  Fishing is failing over and over and over and over.  Fishing is, eventually some small amount of success.  Fishing is rewarding because its difficult and challenging.  

Life is a luxury.  Life is a pursuit of what is elusive and other worldly. Life is failing.  Life is failing over, and over, and over, and over.  Life is, eventually some small amount of success.  Life is rewarding because it is difficult and challenging.

Fishing is metaphor for life.  

Wild fish are life

Stocked fish are a simulation.

But… FUCK IT!  Cynicism makes me cool.  Let’s go rip some lips on the East Fork, and swing by the Twin Dragon on the way out of town.