Four Decades   

Can so much time have passed? It seems unbelievable, yet it’s true that so many years have flown by and all too swiftly. The time I’ve spent on the streams is longer than some people have been alive and, as long as it’s been it still hasn’t been long enough and I hope there will be more ahead. How much there’s likely to be is utterly uncertain, life being what it is. If all there will be is this one season, the fortieth, waiting before me, then that’s what there will be and I’ll try very hard indeed to accept that limitation and call it sufficient. I’m certain that acceptance will be the most difficult task of my life, first because that will mark the end for me of something I deeply love, and secondly because it’s extremely painful to be aware of the declining of abilities. But that comes to us all, so why should it be different for me?

Have forty years with a fly rod made me an expert flyfisher? Now, let’s not be foolish about that; the answer is, "Of course not." What the days that have added up to years have done is to let me know first and foremost that neither I nor anyone else is ever going to know all that the art/sport of fly fishing holds. What I suppose I can say I’ve come to know is that I’m very far indeed from knowing everything, that what I’ve learned is most likely only slightly more than nothing. But what fun there’s been even in simply finding that out!

Most of the past forty years have been spent on one very small stream. It has a name, but I never use it, simply calling the place Little Creek. That’s what it is, too—a very little creek. It’s one of clear, mostly shallow, water, in a beautiful rustic setting that allows me peace and quiet to be savored in solitude. While on the stream I’m just about always alone, being without human companionship, yet there’s never a sense of loneliness. When I think of it, of course, no angler is ever truly alone because of all the life nearby in the woods, the fields, and the water itself. Even in this 21st century the area contains a great many wild birds as well as animals whose sole mistress is Nature herself. It’s been a place that has bestowed great and profound joy on me although it has at times been a haven for a troubled spirit. Having the creek and its surroundings to myself, for the most part, has been a huge blessing to me.

There have been other waters where I’ve been at home and where I’ve managed to become personally acquainted with the trout living in them. It’s difficult to become any more intimately involved with a trout than by removing a hook from its mouth, except if I were to kill and eat it. That’s not something I can do any longer, although if I were forced by hunger to do so then most probably I could bring it off, albeit with enormous reluctance. Both trout and I are fortunate that no such thing has yet occurred, and I hope it never will.

I dearly love the Black River, the Morris County stream where I first used a fly rod. It runs through a state park, below which it flows through private lands. Like many trout streams, it’s intensely beautiful and contains a healthy, strong trout population, the members of which become harder to take as the season rolls on. There’s also the New York stream I always think of, and call, the lovely Beaverkill. To me, the Beaverkill is a seductress, holding out the promise of grand fishing and yet often withholding anything of the kind, depending on many factors, some of which are unknown at least to me. That seductiveness seems characteristic of any trout brook or river where I’ve ever had the good fortune to fish. The glint of the water, the sound of it running over the rocks in its bed, and even more the sudden flash of a trout under the surface or the sight of a rise to a fly all hold the promise of great sport. That’s not always what an angler gets unless she’s already made up her mind that simply being able to fish is wonderful fun in and of itself, regardless of a catch or the lack of one.

Much has changed since my fly rod years began. For one thing, what anglers wear on-stream is very different from the heavy, clumsy and cumbersome rubberized nylon waders that once were made only for men. The first pair I owned, very durable, were far too big for me and I always resembled the first crew member to emerge from a spacecraft. Once, long ago, I was fishing in the very early morning on the Beaverkill and caught a very fine rainbow. It had taken a Gray Wulff, with white calftail wings that looked a yard wide in the dim light. It put up a grand fight and when it finally was brought to hand I released it after having let it rest a bit. I couldn’t forbear giving it a salute of appreciation with my hand as it swam away, and when I did it, there were other hands clapping overhead. Two men had been watching from the bridge over the stream. I said, "Oh, thank you." They, hearing a female voice, turned to look at each other in surprise and one said, "Oh, my God! It’s a woman!!" Who could tell simply by looking, given what I was wearing? How often are we going to hear that these days? Not frequently, I’m sure—not with all of us out there now. It’s high time we had the chance to spend our time fishing and got some recognition from doing it well. Besides, I’ve read that "Allah (or God, or whoever) does not subtract from a man’s life the hours spent in fishing." I can hope only that whoever or whatever may be running things will give us women equal consideration.

Those women only now taking up fly fishing have what I believe is a wonderful future ahead of them. How I envy them their being able to look ahead to what awaits them! There are what can be glorious days up ahead, and I hope with all my heart that those to whom they’ll come will enjoy each of them as much as I’ve enjoyed each of mine. What I believe I’ve gained from fly fishing is more than a tally of trout caught, even more than the often delightful fellow anglers (men and women) I’ve been privileged to know. For me, what’s been given to me is a feeling for the sport, art, call it what you will, in and of itself. To me, it has indeed been a gift, something for which I haven’t labored, and I don’t believe I’ve earned it. May you have the same, and may you be given even more! May whatever portion of your lives you spend a-stream hold times of excited anticipation of pleasure to come while yet remaining times of peace and great joy.

--Margaret B. Clarke--