This time of year, when streams swell with melt-off, I remember my old fishing buddy, Henry, and feel some shame with how I've been spending my time and how infrequently I've gone a-fishing.
We used to fish often, Henry and I, at least once or twice a week on streams and ponds and reservoirs, wherever there was fresh water and a chance of fish. He was a master fisherman, knowledgeable in the use of baits and lures and able to coax an amazing catch from the most unlikely waters. I was his student, getting an education in the art of angling for my supper.
Wearing an old weathered coat and wide-brimmed hat, he always traveled lightly, carrying a creel and fishing pole over the shoulder and a couple sandwiches in his pockets. He much preferred walking to riding, and wherever we went he was always on the move, up and down the river or around the shoreline, constantly exploring and testing the waters with his line.
"Go fish far and wide by day to day," was his motto, which often preceded a prayer-like creed that went something like this:
"Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth. Rise free from care before the dawn, and seek adventures. Let the noon find thee by other lakes, and the night overtake thee every where at home. There are no larger fields than these, no worthier games than may here be played. Grow wild according to thy nature. Let not to get a living be thy trade, but thy sport. Enjoy the land, but own it not."
My friend Henry was a talkative fellow, a natural storyteller always ready to share his adventures or his opinions. Fishing is a lot like gambling, he pointed out. The angler casts for his ticket in the lottery of fate, and who knows what it may draw?
"Shall I go to heaven or a-fishing?" he used to ask. And I always replied that fishing was probably the better bet. Whether you catch fish or not, you almost always take home more than what you came with.
To hear him tell it, Henry made some amazing catches -- fish that take the better part of the day to reel in, or are large enough to chew on for weeks. And he always expected to catch a bigger fish yet. He was the most patient and believing of men. Who else would stand so long in wet places?
"Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in," he once told me, and I believed him.
A good portion of his days were always spend out-of-doors, usually beside some stream or on some hilltop. A family business kept him well enough employed, but he was not an ambitious soul by the usual definition. His ambitions did not run toward money or property, but rather toward something more permanent and ever-lasting.
"Many men go fishing all their lives and do not realize that it is not fish they are after," he explained.
We stopped fishing together regularly long ago. I went on to jobs and family and home ownership, all of which took time away from the kind of fishing we used to share. But every year about this time, I remember Henry and I think fondly on those fishing trips, and I recall these words that will stick with me forever:
"Here or nowhere is our heaven."
