Just Fishin’

It’s the best cover in the world.

No one ever asks: "What's he doing here?" Or thinks of fishermen as idle or as vagrants or as loitering and up to no good. No, fishing is an art, a calling, an occupation. Useless in the best possible way.

Like maybe, oh, I dunno, landscape photography…?

Walking into the old store on the Stanislaus, stepping past puddles of Skoal juice on the porch. I’m after the ultimate fisherman’s staple: Tootsie Roll Pops. A necessity you only seem to find in these spots, usually sold loose inside a goldfish bowl. I smell old oiled wood floors, smoke, Wonder bread, ice cream, and red licorice. Jars of Pautzke’s Balls O’ Fire glow atop a sagging shelf, just past the Van Camp’s and Vienna sausage. Crickets are chirping from the corner.

The friendly proprietor asks: “What’s up today?”

“Oh, just fishin’.”

If pressed about bait or flies, I can always be evasive: no one ever tells the truth about this, anyway.

But really, fishing is close to what I'm doing out there, too. I'm fishing for colors and textures. Dipping my own rod in the proverbial stream. Anglers are nominally after fish, of course, but not always. And I’m not just about the camera. We both haunt the same places, watch the same stream. Note the same bend where the water backs up against a hollow log or some polished granite boulders. Marvel at the deep, inky pools and bright riffles, or the warm reflections at dawn and dusk. And maybe toast our luck with a popper or two of Fireball.

I used to tie flies and build spinners and fish myself, but stopped when I realized that fishing was often "best" at the exact same times as photography. Plus, I didn't really want to cause undue harm or stress, I just wanted to admire these beautiful, bejeweled beings, reel them in and say hello. (Maybe catch-and-release with barbless hooks is sorta like that, too.)

Why do lakes and streams make “places” when others don’t? I think it’s the magic of water—an old, old connection. Water is memory, like in ‘all time at once.’ Fishing with my dad on Jamison Creek. A push-button spinning reel and a canvas creel. The smell of salmon eggs. Wondering how on earth a perfectly straight piece of fishing line could get so hopelessly knotted…? (Though the years have smoothed it out.) Same creek, a bit older now: roll-casting with my first fly rod and hooking the willows behind me, and then my own hat. Losing flies left and right, but kinda getting the feel. Learning to “read water” while listening to river songs, and thinking of…well, not that much at all. I’m still there, and still here, but now I’m using different gear.

Early one much-more-recent morning on Robinson Creek, I was photographing a quiet pool that dropped into a tumbling riffle when a fisherman dangling two beautiful rainbows appeared and walked by. It was barely light; pretty chilly; just us two out there. Our conversation was simply a nod, which said: Nice morning, right? A perfect place to be. I know why you’re here.Me, too.

The image I made then is shown above. The creek is still in shadow, but the surface is aglow with the reflections off the far bank that is just now being lit by the rising sun. That bending, wavering, reddish line that I framed the pool with is the brightening trunk of a lone Jeffrey pine. I sensed an even softer feel than I was seeing on the LCD, so I added a 3-stop ND filter to meld things more. But those rocks below the surface hold steady.

Whether it’s photos or fish, it’s not really the catching that matters, it’s the connection. You’re loving not just the mirrored surface but the shadows that flit below that surface, too. And sensing the soul of the river that runs beneath it all. The endless waters flow by—all time at once—while you’re standing still and waiting like a great blue heron.

And you could be anywhere, right? Simple. But there’s nothing like seeing the morning sparkle on a Sierra stream as framed in the camera. Or like feeling the wild pulse of a golden trout through an old fiberglass Fenwick. Same history, same mystery.

Fishing for light, fishing for life.

“Just fishin’.”

By Scott Atkinson

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