Read this on one of the fly fishing blogs I follow. Not only does it apply to me, I think I know a few on this board it should strike a chord with. Enjoy:
quote:
It began as escapism. It was an activity saved for family vacations, happy times where dad had a cooler full of beer and I was allowed to drink all the cokes I wanted. Impale a worm, drown it under a bobber and see what happens, fishing is very simple when you’re 4. With each passing year It has become a much more elaborate form of escapism but remains, at it’s core, an escape. When paired with drugs and alcohol, it is a detached, wobbly form of escape. When paired with crackling cold, sunrise light and solitude it is an empowered, confident form of escape.It is an excuse to hike, to climb, to scramble up a loose rock face with slobbery cork pressed between my teeth. It’s an excuse to go away for days or weeks or months on end, to sleep in the dirt, to not shave. It’s an excuse (at least temporarily) to live with simple purpose: find water, find shelter, find fish, find that there are moments left over, fill them. It’s a justification to climb the highest scrabble peaks that hide cold alpine lakes or slide through swampy jungle mangrove lagoons in stealth-mode kayaks. It’s the only good reason I can think of to go to Florida. It can be enjoyed in backyard ponds and neighborhood creeks in the thin window between work and dinner. For those with the means, it can be a great way to drop ten grand in a week living in plush comfort in some of the least hospitable corners of the world. At its best, it is an excuse to connect with a select few other people who “get it”. At its worst, when there are too many people who “get it” and they begin to get in my way, it is an excuse to hate the world and its ever-increasing population for encroaching on what is so obviously “mine”.
I wasn’t raised on fly-fishing, I found it. In my house Dad pla
