You realize just how much you were looking forward to the next book by John Gierach when you suddenly realize that there will not be a next book by John Gierach.
At first, when you hear of the passing of a someone like Gierach, you are saddened, as you might expect, but you figure it will be a fleeting, passing emotion that you experience like a thought or sad memory that stings and fades as you go about your day. It’s only when it keeps coming back to you that you realize that you’re part of a community that has truly lost something special. It’s hard, initially, to pinpoint why it is that the death of someone you had never met or spoken with might have any impact on you whatsoever. It seems strange that your life might be impacted at all by the life of someone who’d you’d likely never share a room with. It’s only when you start to probe the emotion with a why that you truly get at what you’re thinking. There’s something truly remarkable about fishing writers, and especially writers like Gierach. They are, in their books, blogs and essays, talking about a sport that we ourselves have come to love. So, there’s that commonality and shared interest, sure. But in Gierach’s case, he’s talking about it in a way that’s humble, genuine, affectionate, and sincere. He’s not bragging about fish or exploits or abilities, he’s simply discussing a sport he loves and the people he’s been lucky to share it with. He’s polished and refined those words more than perhaps he’d admit, and certainly more than it might seem when we read his seemingly casual, conversational tone. He’s polished them in such a way that they paint a picture of a determined but flawed, kind, but at-times grumpy, folksy, observant, whimsical small-town fly fisherman. John Gierach never claimed to be, or attempted to seem, tremendously talented at the sport, intelligent, courageous or extremely driven. Stubborn, maybe, and set in his ways, but he never claimed or bragged about anything that would pass for intelligence, courage or creativity. It’s very likely that he was all of these things, but he never made any attempt to portray himself as such. So, you had a humble, kind, flawed but sincere fisherman who loved the sport and kept at it with his small group of friends despite hardship, mishaps, and difficulties, and yet… Everyone seemed to love him. Mention John Gierach in a fly shop, you’ll get the knowing nods. Post a photo of a book of his on social media and you’ll likely get comments and responses. Lend a book of his to a friend that fishes and hasn’t read him, and you’ll likely get a thank you at the very least, and probably a funny conversation or two discussing the most memorable chapters. Gierach, despite describing himself as an average angler, despite admitting his shortcomings, and despite laughing at his own mishaps, endeared himself to a generation of reading anglers. In fact, that’s precisely how he endeared himself to a generation of reading anglers. He took the elements of the sport that so many of us struggle with but are reluctant to talk about, and he poured out his uncertainty, confusion and exasperation on the page. In a world where many anglers are trying to seem like they’ve got all the answers and secrets, Gierach was quick to admit that he, like most of us, was guessing and hoping. And what humility and sincerity do, in truth, is they give us license to be ourselves more candidly. Because if a relatively famous fishing author is saying that, “the technical voodoo behind the best bamboo rods remains a mystery to me, as it should,” and he is still cherished and beloved by the fishing community, then maybe we can admit that we don’t understand ‘technical voodoo....” either. And if a beloved fishing author isn’t always successful in his endeavors, if he gets frustrated, skunked, and can write sentences like: “I was stalking a rising trout, stepped on a rock I didn’t expect to be loose, and went down, bashing my shoulder hard enough to get an X-ray to look for bone chips….” Then maybe we can admit that we don’t always find the fish, that we miscalculate, approximate and sometimes even stumble and fall, and we can maintain some hope of being appreciated, respected and even loved despite our failures or shortcomings. Because here’s Gierach, talking about all his mistakes, miscalculations, missed fish and misunderstandings and yet… somehow… he’s almost universally beloved. In fact, it almost seems like that’s why he’s beloved. We have a sport where so many ‘experts,’ are trying to tell you the exact size, color and species of insect that fish will be eating at an exact place and an exact time on a given day in a certain season, and that amount of knowledge is, let’s face it, downright intimidating to most of us. Because the vast majority of us spend forty or more hours a week making a living, and then another twenty-five or so helping family and friends, catching up on chores and housework, and walking the dog and mowing the lawn. If we spend fifty-six getting much-needed rest and seven eating dinners, seven commuting, ten watching television or browsing the internet, seven in the shower and brushing our teeth, four shopping, and twenty hours pursuing any other hobby, sport or interest that we might have, that leaves only four hours per week to gain knowhow, technical prowess, experience and wisdom as it relates to the water. If we accept for the sake of argument that it does take 10,000 hours of work, practice and attention to detail to master a given craft, it’d take us 2,500 weeks, or forty-eight years, to become an expert angler. Now of course that’s provided you live in a climate, or have a disposition, that allows you to fish December through March of every given year, which for most of us in the United States, is not a given. The math speaks for itself and it doesn’t lie, while there are a lot of us anglers who love the water and the sport, there are very few master craftsmen when it comes to any type of fishing: Most of us just don’t have the time. So, it stands to reason that someone claiming near-perfect wisdom, technical expertise, and years of amassed knowledge, while they might be interesting to listen to for a little while, at the end of the day wouldn’t be very relatable or endearing. When we have to shoehorn this undeniable truth into our understanding of the sport and the way we share it with others, then we’re forced to acknowledge that maybe it’s not a technical prowess, wizardry, incredible understanding of the fish or the water or even a long list of accolades or exploits over the years in our angling experiences that will gain us acceptance and acclaim in our social circles or at our Trout Unlimited meetings. After all, who among us can say with any certainty what fish will be doing at such and such a time on a certain day in a given month? Someone relying on, say, Dumb Luck and the Kindness of Strangers, however, that’s a lot more relatable. In Gierach’s books and collections, more than twenty all told, he never promises any unforgettable exploits, unbelievable stories, descriptions of far-off, remote destinations, or bizarre fish stories. Rather, he takes an almost formulaic, predictable route to sharing his story. You could, if you’d read enough of them, probably guess that a Gierach story was one of his simply by reading the first few sentences without even seeing an author name attached to it. Bill Heavey and John Merwin were similar in that regard among contemporary fishing writers, their style was recognizable of its own accord. Gierach’s gift is that he holds an unforgiving mirror up to his own experience, examines the sport in all its eccentricities with all of its color and beauty and its varied personalities and character, and he laughs aloud without mocking our pastime, because he’s laughing at himself. He’s laughing at how crazy it is to spend hours and hours, and thousands of dollars, to swindle fish into eating something manmade only so that we might hold them for a brief instant and photograph before sending them back from whence they came. The sport, examined purely objectively only on what it yields for the practitioner, is somewhat ridiculous when we think about it. We as a species breed another species to put it in bodies of water where they wouldn’t be otherwise. We do this so that we can visit it with fake bugs that we place in front of them on long thin lines, only to rip them away from their home, hold them and send them back. After we’ve pulled said species that we placed in the water, which we’ve protected and maintained with thousands of dollars of manmade infrastructure and machinery, and we’ve placed it back, we proceed to argue with one another about whether said specimen was handled correctly and carefully enough so that – after it was bred in human captivity, released into a man-maintained and regulated waterbody, having been stung with a hook and ripped from its home, it might return to said waterbody to await a repeat experience from the next angler to pass through. Hopefully, the traumatic experience won’t be so jarring that it discourages the fish from eating actual insects in the interim, because of course we’d prefer it grew as much as possible prior to its next cameo appearance in the human experience. Fishing, as we practice it now, is an absurd activity on several levels that could not possibly make more sense given the current state of humanity. As a species, thanks to climate-controlled living spaces, goods produced on an enormous scale for minimal cost, endless digital entertainment and currency we mostly just hold temporarily as it passes between the outstretched hands of enormous corporations, we have never been more removed from our true nature. Human beings were created to hunt, gather, and travel, sharing our experiences, joys and increased understanding along the journey. Increasingly in modern society we are herded like sheep between jobs where we earn a wage, and places of entertainment where we can be relieved of said wage. There’s social media and cable television to keep us tame and occupied in the other hours, and very few, very rich individuals control the vast majority of the resources. We watch televised debates and pick sides in a political sporting match to feel as though our opinion matters or determines our society’s direction. And in reality, it’s this repetitive, predictable and stale treadmill that is truly contrived and insincere. On a river, stream or beach, you might be targeting a fish that has been stocked by human hands only to release it again, but you’re treading on rocks that have been there for centuries, surrounded by trees that have grown and changed, adapted and found the light for decades of rain-soaked springs and frozen winters. You are immersed in something genuine and authentic, in the exact way you were meant to be [save for the gear, rod, waders and polarized optics, of course]. In exploring and searching, moving and learning, adapting and adjusting, you are using the most natural and sincere sensibilities that you have as a human. Maybe a sense of humor, a willingness to be self-deprecating on occasion, just to remind our friends that we don’t take ourselves that seriously, a sincere appreciation of the resources that fishing brings us into contact with, and a genuine desire to learn and improve, to travel and explore and to truly feel all the beauty that is almost inherently intertwined in every fishing life will be the most fitting way we can remember Gierach. Gierach’s life and words were constant reminders that in order to be respected and admired, enjoyed and praised, all we really need to do is be as altruistic as we can be on a daily basis, sincere, and patient with our fellow anglers. And that sounds a hell of a lot easier than catching a 23-inch wild brown on a miniscule fly that you matched the hatch with while executing perfect casts from the bank right in front of a hidden hole that no other angler could find. Whether we like it or not, or admit it or not, at least some of our angling is done to impress our fellow fishermen. What Gierach showed us is that if it’s approval we’re after, there’s a much shorter and easier road to take to that end, and it starts right here. All we really need to do is try to understand the sport, the fish and the geography, and to share that journey in a sincere and humble way. The fact that we as a society have become so focused on measurable achievement, goals, competitions and comparisons and most-recently, shareable exploits or accomplishments, that we need to devise an entire ‘sport,’ to justify returning to the exact places and environments that we were created to exist in, is irony at its finest. And not only did John Gierach understand this irony inherently, he embraced it, loved it, laughed at it, and made it clear enough to us so that we could share in the joke with him. “Back when we still camped on the water, we’d now and then have a fresh brown trout dinner, but there’s no way to fry them in the motel room, so we release the trout and live on burgers and fries, as fishermen do.” It’s subtle observations like that one that fill Gierach’s books and make you laugh and think and wonder all at once. In All the Time in the World, Gierach writes, when talking about fishing stories in particular: We’ve all seen sentiment outlast reality. And such will be the case with his words and stories, which will live for as long as the language, I’m sure. “… I was thinking about rivers,” Gierach writes in All The Time in the World. “How they’re as mortal as we are, but in geologic time, sot that in our limited way of seeing things, they seem to last forever, perpetually recycling the world’s water from snowpack to oceans and back again – the same water we’ve always had or ever will have.” Gierach’s words will appear in collections, reprints, on T-shirts and bumper stickers, they’ll be shared, quoted, paraphrased, and summoned when wisdom and humor are needed simultaneously. When a river dries up, certainly we don’t say that it’s gone, and we’ll give John the same respect, looking forward to the way his insightful soul will manifest itself in our lives as anglers, farther on downstream.
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Rick BachPublisher, The Road to Water Magazine, Freelance writer, angler, traveler, Christian. Archives
December 2024
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