The fly line whipped close enough to my ear to make me flinch. A colorful prism appeared in the mist behind the line and quickly dissipated. “Time to catch another,” my oldest son said.
My other two sons and I shook our heads. “That’s the kiss of death,” I said. “You never call a fish because it’s like they hear you and purposefully avoid your …”
“Got it!” He jerked his rod and the line danced in the water, bolting left and right in the reflection of trees and sky.
My sons looked at him, then me. I shrugged. He pulled a nice brown trout into his net and held it aloft.
Life is like that sometimes.
The last few years, we’ve escaped the hustle of Christmas by spending time in a cabin somewhere off the beaten path. My wife’s birthday is in late December, so we tie the need for relaxation to the desire for celebration and disappear for a few days before New Year’s Eve.
This time, we headed northwest to Eureka Springs. All the kids were on board, making it a full house.
I know, it seems ironic that we’d have to escape the happiest times of the year, but you understand how families are, especially large families.
My college son came home from school in early December with mono. For good measure, we then entertained two covid cases in the house. After staying apart, isolating, and making sure we didn’t ruin Christmas for others, we then finished shopping in a rush and packed every sentimental thing we do into a handful of days.
Christmas Eve Mass. Christmas night dinner. Presents and good cheer littering the floor. The day after Christmas, I hauled the tree to the curb and climbed into our already packed car to head north.
The wind swept through tall pines. That’s the first sound we heard after driving down a long dirt road to the cabin. No traffic noise, no sounds of trash dumpsters emptying, or the pounding of construction. Just the wind.
Ending a year in the quiet adds time–purposeful time–to reflect and repair.
Last year, we planted ourselves on the shores of the Little Red and spent every day wading and fishing. My daughters proved better, with my oldest hauling in a massive rainbow despite her rod separating. She wrapped the fluorescent line around her wrist and just kept pulling until the fish reached her net. One of us caught a picture of it, an image of sheer joy and determination that remains one of my favorites.
My other daughters had lined the rocky shores and cast spinning reels into the darkness of the reflected cloudy sky. Even my youngest, at just 8 years old, felt the pull of simplicity in the repetition. Cast. Slowly reel. Repeat. My teenage daughter is usually the luckiest when it comes to fishing and, once again, she set the family record.
This year, our cabin’s location provided easy access to the White River to augment the quiet with some good fishing. The generators powering much of the electricity in that area took a break that week, so the water was a perfect, slow moving stream that allowed wading deep into its middle. We spent several mornings and a couple of afternoons just below Beaver Dam.
For some reason, my middle son prefers a spinning reel to a fly rod. He’ll throw lures or dig worms and wait while the rest of us loop fly lines through the air. Despite our harangues, he doesn’t budge.
“Nope,” he said after yet another request to pick up a fly rod.
“You were an English major in college,” I replied, standing on a wet boulder just above the river. I swept my arm across the sky. “Look at this. It’s magnificent. Water and air meeting under the gaze of mountains and trees. The only thing that makes it better is the delicate pirouette of a fly line.”
I was purposefully testing my limited vocabulary to catch his attention. He’s the Holden Caulfield of the family. He’s the one who appreciates beauty, is the reluctant joiner, and finds meaning in small acts. After college, he traveled Europe while working remotely and applying to grad schools.
My son looked out into the ripples and breathed deeply. I had him, I thought.
Then, he said simply, matter-of-factly, “Fly fishing is art. Putting a nasty worm in dark water is mystery. I’m okay with the mystery today.”
I didn’t catch a single fish that week. My oldest son ended up calling each of his and landing several pan-sized trout. My youngest son caught a couple, too. My Holden Caulfield son had several on the line, several rising to the surface until airborne, but they each dashed off his hook. It didn’t seem to bother him at all, though.
Life is like that sometimes.
Sometimes you’re on a streak and pulling in good things. Sometimes you’re just staring into the world, struck by recognition of art before you. Sometimes, it’s all mystery.
The quiet between holidays is opportunity. This is where we reflect and repair. This is where we make ready for the coming year. This is where we become still, become settled, before launching forward.
And that’s just enough.
Steve Straessle is the principal of Little Rock Catholic High School for Boys. You can reach him at sstraessle@lrchs.org. Find him on Twitter @steve_straessle. “The Strenuous Life” appears every other Saturday.
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