Fishing, spirituality and us

"Spirituality can refer to an ultimate or alleged immaterial reality, an inner path enabling a person to discover the essence of his/her being; or the deepest values and meanings by which people live. Spiritual practices, including meditation, prayer and contemplation, are intended to develop an individual's inner life; spiritual experiences includes that of connectedness with a larger reality, yielding a more comprehensive self; with other individuals or the human community; with nature or the cosmos; or with the divine realm. Spirituality is often experienced as a source of inspiration or orientation in life. It can encompass belief in immaterial realities or experiences of the immanent or transcendent nature of the world". -- Wikipedia

For most of us, fishing is a spiritual experience.

We cast our line out on the wind, the line billowing like a spider's web, the lure following an arc with our rod at one end and a small patch of water beside a lily pad at the other. In the two seconds it takes to reach its destination, we hear a gull cry overhead; we smell the smoke of a forest fire 30 miles away; we feel the boat rock beneath our feet from a wave; we feel the wind against our cheek and the spray from the wet line hitting the eye of our rod landing on our hand. Our eyes see rings from minnows ripple the surface of the lake and the lip of the lily pad flutter in the wind. We see the reflection of the lure on the water a moment before it lands with a splash, minnows and whirligig beetles scattering away from the impact.
We are aware of all that, and more, in just a blink of time.
We are not thinking of yesterday. We are not thinking of tomorrow.
We are only alive right NOW, in this moment.
And that is just the cast.

The lure sinks; we quickly reel in the slack of the line and feel the pull of the lure as it manoeuvres through the density of the water. We see the flash of the brass side of the spoon, then the white paint on the other and then the rhythm between the two. A water weed -- a musky cabbage -- is in the path of the lure! We instinctively lift our rod tip to bring the lure to the surface and swing the tip to the side, making the lure change direction and avoid the weed.
Then we drop the rod tip, slow the retrieve and the image of the lure fades into the depths.
It's our sense of feeling now that guides us; the pull on the line, the slight oscillations interpreting the wobbling of the lure down below. We intuitively know the lure is in deeper water so we slow the retrieve even more, letting the spoon be pulled by gravity nearer the bottom. We envision what it must look like down there: the alternating flash of the spoon in the water made murky by the waves striking the soil on the bottom of the lake. The weeds are sparse here. The lure is weaving like a lost minnow in a panic.
Then there is a strike! The pull on the line is immense, the drag on the reel sounds like a violin. The line is heading toward deeper water, taken there by a creature whose domain we have now joined. Weeds shoot high in the air, flipped there by our line. Water striders run across the lake's surface to get out of the way of the commotion. We reel; the fish pulls against the drag, back and forth until its muscles are tired. Our muscles are tired too but not as much as the fish's. It comes to the net and we lift it aboard.
We can see the panic in its eyes. It tries to swim again but it is now on the bottom of the boat.
Our only thought is to quickly get the hook loose and release the fish back to the water. We already have a fish to eat. No one needs to tell us it would be wrong to keep more than we need.
We feel it with our entire being.
The fish is magnificent, a sleek design that took millions of years to perfect. The mosaic of scales are covered with alternating spots. We see its lateral line that lets the fish feel movement in the water, something like a bat's sonar sees in the dark.
It flares its gill plate and we see the layers of red filaments beneath. This is how a fish can extract oxygen from its atmosphere, just like our lungs do above the surface.
The hook is loose so we lower the fish over the side of the boat and hold it upright in the water while it breathes again and takes stock of its surroundings. It waves its tail and we take it as a sign. We let go and the fish pauses a second, then flips its tail and disappears.
We feel happy and serene. We are thankful for the fish and its world -- it's our world too. We lived there for a moment and we respectfully left it as we found it.
Our self feels replenished.

According to legend, the Buddha was asked if he was a god.
"No," he said, "I am awake."

When we fish, we are awake. We are attuned to the environment, to the world, to the reverence and wonder of life.

If that isn't spirituality, I don't know what is.

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The misunderstood other "eagle"

A "bald-headed eagle," aka turkey vulture, suns itself near camp

The real bald eagle is a symbol of strength. Photo by Steve Ozark

Many years ago an Ojibwe elder, Jim Paishk, worked at camp as a guide and helper and would share his knowledge, humour and wisdom about the Boreal Forest and its creatures.
The two largest birds of the northern sky, pictured above, were what he called "the eagle" and the "bald-headed eagle."
"The eagle" was what we all know as the bald eagle. It is the national symbol of the United States and is also honoured by the Ojibwe who use its feathers for spiritual and ceremonial purposes.
"The bald-headed eagle," as Jim called it, is what we know as the turkey vulture, also sometimes called a buzzard. It doesn't share its cousin's lofty position when it comes to human esteem and I'm not sure why.
The vulture eats carrion or dead creatures, that's true, but so does the noble eagle. In fact given a choice a bald eagle always prefers the meal that isn't trying to get away. However, if there's nothing dead at hand, the eagle will resort to catching its own live prey, almost always a fish. If it was a duck people would contemptuously refer to it as a "fish duck," not one of the preferred "puddle ducks." But no one sneers at the eagle as the "fish hawk," maybe because there is one of those already, the osprey which only hunts fish, live fish.

About as handsome as a turkey

Perhaps it's the lack of head covering that gives the vulture its low place on everybody's bird list. Yet another bird, the wild turkey, has basically the same hair style, and it gets great reviews.
There is at least one creature however, who is best friends with the vulture and that is the popular bald eagle. I think ravens and crows appreciate the vulture just as much. The reason is the vulture is the only bird with an incredible sense of smell. It can detect the odour of a dead animal or fish, from thousands of feet away. It leads all the carrion-eating birds to the site, even if it is obscured by trees and other vegetation. You could say it is the bloodhound of the bird set.
If you watch us dump fish guts on the rocky island at camp each night you will see that the nasty-tempered eagles gathered there always tolerate their bald-headed cousins. They didn't need them to find the fish gut island, of course, but the rest of the time they are pretty handy friends to have around.

Bald eagles, vultures and even one raven share the pickings at the rocky island

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Fishing Etiquette 101 - Distance Between Boats

Bow Narrows angler Troy Downs' shirt says it all

If there is one beef about other anglers that we hear from our guests, it is that someone else crowded-in on them while they were fishing.
Last week a man and woman fishing in one of our camp boats had just caught and released a nice walleye when suddenly one of the Fall Walleye Classic boats "pre-fishing" before next weekend's tournament roared right up alongside. Although such boorish behaviour is legal during the tournament (you just can't hit the other boat), it is a thoughtless, obnoxious act when it is perpetrated upon someone who is just fishing for recreation two weeks before the tournament.
Two years ago I was nearly swamped by a tournament pre-fishing boat as it did donuts at low speed around me. The boat's five occupants had their eyes glued to multiple fish-finders to see if I had revealed to them some secret honey-hole. They cared nothing about the huge wake they created or that me and my dog, Sam, were holding on for our lives.
Just like the couple, I fired up my motor and headed back to camp. This isn't what fishing is supposed to be about. I am not always so easy-going.
Once I was fishing by myself on a still evening and could hear a boat coming far off in the distance as it crossed a large bay. Eventually I heard it enter the narrows and finally turn into the long bay where I was floating, jigging quietly for walleye.  Mine was the only boat in the entire mile-long bay. The boat, which was from another camp, had two occupants. It had nearly gone by my location when I was obviously spotted. It did a 90-degree turn and, to my astonishment, stopped 15 yards away. The two anglers had just commenced to fish when I switched to a large red-and-white spoon and cast right into the middle of their boat.
"Are you nuts?" one of the red-faced anglers asked.
"Sorry. I'm just not good at SHORT casts," I thundered.
They left.
Obviously, they were driving around the lake looking for someone to fish beside, the same as the pre-fishing tournament boats did to me and to the couple.
This is rude, unacceptable behaviour.
Fishing is a meditative, spiritual exercise for most anglers. They like to be left alone. We should all respect that.
I have been asking our anglers this summer what they think the minimum distance between boats should be. The answer is 50 yards unless the other boat's occupants are someone you know.
 I would agree with a couple of caveats: unique fishing spots such as below a rapids can't be claimed by just one boat; and, during the exact day of a tournament, it is unrealistic to expect tournament anglers fishing for money to respect anything else.