Fly fishing again
Fishing for the first time since the accident
I fly fished for the first time in 2022, the first time since my brain injury. I did not—to nobody’s surprise—catch anything.
Something glamorous like trout or stripers was not in the cards. I was just going for bass and bluegill. Something doable, easier, low-pressure. The place I went often yields a fish on every cast, usually earlier in the year. It can be comically easy, to the point I’m sometimes hesitant to fish there. I still do. Catching tons of bluegill is a great antidote to a bad day.
Habitually, I keep it to myself or take people there to teach them how to fly fish. I want them to catch fish and get excited. If you’re positioned right, your backcast will not get hung up on trees—an easy way to discourage a would-be angler.
Now, I didn’t catch fish. I’m sure I could have at the right time. It isn’t right now. It’s almost July. My cast was passable—even good, considering the state of my right side this year—but I got skunked where I never have before, going for bass and bluegill of all things. There are places you expect to get skunked, fish species you know to be picky. Sometimes, it even feels like an honor to be bested by a fish. At this place, a favorable location with plenty of panfish who don’t hesitate to take a fly, none of those things was true.
I did bawl my eyes out on the way to the water. Sobbed. Ugly cried. Call it what you will. I can’t remember the last time I cried like that. It was only my second time crying since all of this happened, and definitely the most intense of the two.
I told my fishing buddy about it. He called it “beautiful,” and said that it meant I “still love it.” I do. It gives me purpose. Fly fishing can constantly be worked on and improved upon, from merely casting, to messing with split shot, strike indicator height, fly selection, tippet length—a million things. Don’t even get me started on fly tying. I’m always a student of both. You can always improve and should be working to do so, which isn’t the worst thing when you’re recovering from a brain injury and have to re-teach your mind how to do things you’ve always done.
At one of my lowest points, the same fishing buddy—a very close friend I introduced to fly fishing and tying when I worked with him—told me to just imagine how good hooking into my first striper since the accident would feel. I imagined, and felt less low. There was something to look forward to, a reason to keep doing all of this: my favorite fish.
I still can not drive right now (another reason to cry, but I’m working on it). Post-accident, I want to let myself enjoy things more instead of overthinking and being hyper-critical of myself. I cried tears of relief to be fishing again, doing something I’ve always done. It felt like a huge exhalation. I never expected to cry to certain Fred Eaglesmith or Jeremy Cameron songs, but we listened to one of my “driving to go fishing” playlists on the way there and I lost it.
The playlist, which I made at a more jovial time, is called “fart-filled waders.” I probably have a dozen “driving to go fishing” playlists, but “fart-filled waders” was fitting, even though my waders were not filled with flatulence.
I’ve spent some time trying to figure out why I cried. I’ve never cried on the way to fish before. So far, what I’ve come up with is: I was in my waders in a Tacoma. Maybe a bit of an oversimplification, but both of those things are true. I was back to a form of business as usual.
It wasn’t my Tacoma and I wasn’t behind the wheel, but I felt more like myself again. I was doing a thing I’ve spent countless hours doing. In the past, if you weren’t sure where I was (particularly between April and November), a very safe bet would be that I was fishing, or on my way to do so. AKA, don’t call or text. Now, if you had the same question, a safe bet is that I’m doing therapy exercises, or on my way to or at the hospital. Sometimes life throws you a thing you weren’t expecting and you just have to react however you can, with whatever help is available to you.
Miraculously, I am not dead. In recovery I’ve had a lot of help, great help. But I can’t help but feel part of me died when we were hit by that truck. My life ended. My life as I knew it ended. I could hardly walk at the outset of the spring run of striped bass. On uneven sand, after dark? Out of the question. If you told me in early January that I’d still be fishless in June, almost July, I wouldn’t have believed you. Usually I catch trout when the stripers are away, but not this time. I haven’t caught a trout in over a year. Normally, by this time, I’ve caught plenty of fish of many species. This year, I have not. I’ve caught nothing.
Fishing is not an insignificant part of my identity. It comes up pretty quickly if you ask me to describe myself. Now, it’s a part of me the accident took—at least for the time being, or it feels that way. The quickest way to feel like I was closer to who I was, that my life isn’t over, was to put the waders on and do something I’d be doing if none of this happened. Even if the waders were loose. I’ve lost almost 40 pounds, mostly in my lower half.
People tell me I will look back on this time—this year, or whatever period of time—and be glad at the work I’ve done, the help I’ve received, the recovery I’ve made. I’ll be thrilled when I’ve recovered, when this is behind me, but I can’t help but think I’ll look back at this as time that was taken from me. If you’re feeling playful, you could measure these months in fish I didn’t catch but otherwise might have. That this time has been taken from me is something I feel whenever I wake up and will spend the day trying to ameliorate the injury. This was never my life. In the blink of an eye, it became my life.
I recently bemoaned how full my days used to be. I love to do stuff, to learn and try new things. My days are still full, but in a different way. I’ve spent a lot of time in hospital waiting areas. I’ve done exercises which would normally not challenge my balance and tried hard not to fall. I speak and read aloud in a voice pretty different than mine was before. I’m raspier, probably because of the intubation. It can damage your vocal cords.
I’ve still managed to do some things I used to. I take pictures of birds—not always rare ones. Sometimes I just watch them. Today I was visited by two Pileated Woodpeckers in the morning and Piping Plovers—adults and chicks—at lunchtime on the beach.
Before fishing, I tied a fly onto my leader. The knot was not easy, as expected with the current state of my fine motor skills, and I was thrilled to be able to tie the knot at all. It was just a clinch knot. I’ve tied thousands of knots—clinch, non-slip loops, blood knots, surgeon’s, Bimini twists—but it felt nearly impossible now. I was using 5x tippet, even though I probably didn’t need to. I’ve even gone as small as 8x before, not too frequently. Those knots are a pain in the ass. Tying something on to a beefier leader for saltwater is much more pleasant. I went to the water in pursuit of fish and came up empty. I casted and tried, with nothing to show for it.
Not always fishing-related, I do other things. I write here, for whoever feels like reading. I dress myself. I take showers standing up. I make and eat an over easy egg in the morning, my ability to crack and flip it is a barometer of how the day will go.
All that being said, it is productive not to compare myself to where I was. It is unfortunate, but the only way to get back there is to work. Doing things how I used to is a good—if sometimes counterintuitive—goal. Why can’t I just do these things already? I could before. It makes no sense. Why are things hard now which used to be easy? I feel that in PT, when I now deadlift weight I previously would have done with an extra zero at the end. Sometimes I have to suppress thoughts of “I hate this,” for productive ones. This is the reality right now. I didn’t choose it; I can choose how to react.
I will probably deadlift more weight again, but I can’t right now. My right hand grip strength needs to improve. The same is true of fishing. I have to get back to where I was. Maybe I’ll catch a 50 inch striper some day, but that day is not today, probably not all that soon. Today, I’d be happy to catch a striped bass of any size. Just being able to cast effectively would be a victory. I can do it, but there are a lot of small factors I can’t even begin to consider when I practice. The takeaway is simple: If you want to fish, fish. If you want to do anything, try to do it. Do so safely, but trying is the best way to see where you need work, and it’s probably not where you expected, probably isn’t something you want or ever thought you’d need to work on. The not simple part is that fishing now is frustratingly different than fishing then, in a myriad of ways. Be prepared for the inconsistencies and do it anyway. I will fish for stripers for the first time soon, maybe a couple of weeks. I doubt I will catch anything. If I do, you will read about it. The road to be me again is long and hard, but it exists. The only thing to do now is to keep taking steps on it, however little they might seem right now.
Poignant and open …. Thank you for writing.
Donna