‘The great charm of fly-fishing is that we are always learning.’ — Theodore Gordon (1854-1915)
Editor-In-Chief, Chester “Trip” Buckenmaier III, MD, COL (ret.), MC, USA
I am hunkered down at our family camp in Maine, avoiding the sweltering temperatures baking the country’s interior. The environmental demons we have created through our insatiable thirst for fossil fuel energy are exacting their vengeance on our abuse of mother nature. My family is, indeed, fortunate to have a rustic cabin refuge on the shores of a clean Maine lake. I revel in the fact that I often must ask what day it is and rarely know whether the former president has collected another indictment. Only important news is discussed at camp. Essential issues like whether he will propose today (he did), will our grandson crawl today (he did not) and what happened on this morning’s fly-fishing excursion.
The special knowledge that is fly-casting was first imparted to me more than 30 years ago by my father-in-law, Bruce. Bruce had to endure my endless flubbed (medical word) casts, resulting in the fly line cascading from the sky in useless coils, with the fly alighting mockingly on top of the tangled mass. He would offer me some helpful criticism regarding my technique, which I rarely heard over the roar (at least in my mind) of all the large and smallmouth bass in the lake laughing at me and my pitiful excuse for a cast. In a demonstration, Bruce would then effortlessly cast out his line straight and long with the fly landing precisely where he desired, irresistible to any bass nearby. The beauty of his fly rod work captivated me, and I wanted the Zen skill of fly-casting. So, I practiced.
An old fly-caster in our Maine pine grove community appreciated my zeal and effort. He rewarded me (a comparative youngster) with a splendid Orvis fly-rod. Lightweight and possessing superior rod action, my casting improved. At some point, I began experiencing the joy of a good cast and began to be rewarded with the occasional fish. Any game fish caught on a fly line is an accomplishment and a thrill. I always repay the favor of experiencing this delight by returning said fish to the lake to seek out some other summer.
Time, as it wants to do, has passed. I have become the teacher. My middle daughter (with a recent fiancé) was the first to catch the fever; her skill has impressively grown through the years. I like to boast that her casting would put most 50-something fly-casters to shame. This summer, my youngest (now with a fiancé as of today) has subjected herself to my gentle comments regarding her cast and the endless embarrassing casting errors inherent to this particular approach to fishing. Nothing about this sport is easy, the rods are fragile, the fly line is constantly trying to tangle itself into a ball, trees and bushes are reaching out to catch the fly as it whips through the air and a fish often has all the advantages against an 8-pound tippet line connected to the fly. There are absolutely easier ways to fish, but none so beautiful to witness when done well.
One never masters fly-fishing; the slightest display of arrogance or inattention usually ends in a humbling experience. Recently, in my own moment of lax attention, I managed to hook an innocent lily pad. As my daughter tried to angle the boat, so I could retrieve my fly, her line became tangled in our electric trolling motor. I resorted to my backup propulsion, oars. With my first stroke, one oar promptly snapped (even more humorous because this is not the first oar I have broken when confronted with a boating flub—ask after buying me a beer). We had gone from fishing nirvana to powerless fly-fishing comic clowns in less than 60 seconds. I sat in stunned silence as my broken oar floated mockingly away. My daughter helpfully broke my dumbfounded muteness and suggested we make for a nearby beach.
I calmly used the remaining oar as a paddle to get to shore. I was not angry or sad; I was just fly-fishing. Once safely beached, I removed the motor propeller and extracted the rat’s nest of fly line from the shaft. A mere spin-caster fisherman would likely have admitted defeat and cut the line and their losses, saving time. Not us! With patience that would have impressed a Tibetan monk, we meticulously detanglerized (boating term) the line. After an extended period, we were back on the water, fly-fishing, the roar of bass fish laughter echoing in my head as I recall.
The similarities between fly-fishing and medicine are endless and instructive. In medicine, as in fly-fishing, one must be taught by someone with impressive patience and skill. The profession is constantly humbling, regardless of your perceived expertise. Patient care wins are often rare and fleeting, but oh so satisfying and motivating to make you continue. The potential for disaster is ever present, and only a calm and dogged determination will get you through. Finally, if you remain open to learning and listening, then medicine—like fly-fishing—is always open to teaching you something new.