Primal Senses

Deep, deep in the psyche of the most pampered and protected city dwelling technophile, there is a wild thing. As our society has moved away from the agrarian and into virtual reality, this 'inner Cave Woman' has emerged in some surprising ways. One of these has been the upsurge of popularity of the sport of fly-fishing, once the most exclusive angling tradition. I believe much of this has come about because humankind is a part of Nature, and vice-versa; And people feel incomplete when severed from this connection. There are many things folks could do to satisfy their primal urge to reconnect with their natural roots, but fly-fishing allows one to do this in a gentle, responsible way, without killing, yet satisfying that atavistic need because we could eat our prey if we desired; The fish, the insects, the equipment, the movements of casting, and the setting are all esthetically exquisite; And there is the fun of a puzzle to solve, stimulating our little primate brains.

Our increasing technology has made us more and more visually-oriented. I've noticed, though, that when I go fishing, and my primal self creeps out of hiding, my other senses come to the forefront. As a wild creature, I depend on all of my senses for survival. And, for the moment, I am a wild thing, despite being hung about with technological gadgets and within walking distance of the car. First to get my attention are the sounds. Moving water, that most soothing of melodies. A birdcall. Wind stirring leaves. A rustling in the brush, followed by the pounce-pounce-pounce of a squirrel. The glup of a feeding fish. Primal Woman knows them all, categorizes them, reacts to them, or not, without thought.

There is nothing so evocative to the memory as aromas. This may include archetypal memories. I'm convinced that, if I was blindfolded and dropped on the banks of Penn's Creek or Kettle Creek or one of the other waters that figure largely in my life, I'd know instantly that there was water nearby, fish in that water, and woods around me. I'd be tempted to say I could tell the hemlock fragrance of one from the poplar-leaf mold smell of the other, distinguish the faint salty air of the Lake of the Lilies, the exotic oily-mud odor of the Perkiomen, the duck-feather tang of Spring Lake. I know that, when there are a lot of fish concentrated in one area, especially if they are spawning, as with panfish in May, I can smell them clearly. What a wonderful survival sense! Cave Woman smell fish, catch-um, feed family. And is there anything that, in the dead of winter, brings back the very feel of fishing like uncorking the fly floatant, reel lube, bug repellent, or suntan oil; Letting their familiar fragrances transport one through space and time?

Touch is our most primitive sense, the one infants use to learn about their world long before they begin to understand sight and sound images. It's the sense we use instinctively, and trust the most. We communicate our most primal emotions via touch: Fear and anger, love and comfort. To me, fly-fishing is a very tactile experience. Admittedly, many of those sensations are unpleasant: The maddening sting of flies and gnats, the burn of bramble scratches, hook stabs, the raw stiffness of wet clothes drying as I wear them, the radiant heat of sunburn, muscle aches, that shooting pain in the mid-back that comes from an overfull vest with all the weight concentrated in front. Sweaty heat, numbing cold, the ache of sunglare, bruises, blisters, chafing... Cave Woman was familiar with all of these. In an odd way, I cherish the pain, especially after I return to camp or home after a day's angling. It tells me I have spent the day in intimate contact with Nature, meeting her on her own terms, using the strength, endurance, cunning, and courage of my primal self. And survived, the richer for the experience.

Of course, there are pleasant sensations from fishing as well. One of my favorites is the thumb abrasion caused by contact with many, many fish teeth. And the fight of a hooked fish is almost completely a touch experience, until it's brought to hand. The tug-and-flex of casting, the subtle line vibrations of a nymph wending its way down a complex current, the heartlike throb of a fish feeling the sting of a hook and shaking its head to test the line, are all sensations that mean "fishing" to me. The muscular feel of a landed fish, the heft of a big one in hand, the slippery twist when a released fish realizes it's free.

Until last summer I'd forgotten the sensuous pleasure of wading wet. My first pair of stocking-foot waders, or, rather, the boots, reintroduced me to this childhood joy. One hot summer day, I left the waders behind and donned the boots for traction. I was startled, stepping into the stream and feeling the water gush through the drainholes, soaking my socks. This is not a sensation one wants to feel when wearing waders. It took me a few moments of reasoning with myself to understand it was a sensation I very much wanted to feel without waders. As I waded deeper, I was struck by the silky feel of the water against my legs, the feeling of communion with the stream as micro-currents caressed my skin. When I stood still, I could feel vibrations that could have been fish, or splashing waterfowl, or my companion wading the tail of the big pool. I could have pondered the speed of sound in water, or the elegant sensitivity of a fish's lateral line, but I was caught up in my own senses, Primal Woman from hat to felt soles. I was so entranced and focused on being part of the river, the feather touch of a stonefly climbing free of the water, up my leg, was a disproportionate shock. Normally not ticklish, I jumped and giggled helplessly as I gently brushed a series of stoneflies back into the current. The current itself told me these insects were riding down from a tributary, and I moved out of their line of drift. I couldn't see the tiny dark stoneflies nor any sign of the current they rode; But I cast back into the drift I'd discovered and caught several fish. In addition to feeling the currents, I was acutely aware of temperature changes as I waded, finding fish in the cooler backwaters that had been shaded, and just enjoying the warmth of the stretches that had been in sun all day. It was an extraordinary day's fishing, less for the fish caught than the delightful sensation of intimacy with the river. Mr. Freud might have a few choice words to say about this, but I now wade wet whenever water temperatures allow.

Cave Woman has developed greatly since my first fishing trip. She caresses bamboo rods with a loving touch; Fingers the softness of deer hair or dubbing and the stiffness of hackle fibers, testing for quality. She savors the smooth vibrations of a fine reel's drag, a feel as musical as its sound. Her presence attunes me to Nature, whether I'm among the reeds of Long Beach Island or in the parking lot at work. This increased awareness and understanding has enriched my life immeasurably. In fact, I've come to believe that this is what my life is about, not money or possessions or the things I do to acquire them. Fly-fishing was the start of this journey of self-discovery. I am Primal Woman.

-Rabbit Jensen-