Throwin' 'em Back

 

I don’t eat the fish I catch. I’d like to say that it comes from a deep commitment to maintaining a balance in nature or a well-thought-out wilderness ethic – you know, a “take only pictures, leave only footprints” kind of thing – but the truth is much simpler than that: I’m selfish and lazy. I throw the fish back because I’m too lazy to clean them, and if I throw them back then maybe they’ll be there the next time I fish that spot. On a slow day, it’s good to know exactly where the fish are (because you put them there), even if you can’t see any evidence of their presence. Catching a fish in a spot that gives no outward appearance of having fish makes you look like a magician or alchemist who can turn a rock into gold, or in this case, water into a trout.

 

Such a fisherman can soon gain the reputation of being a master of the craft, someone who has special knowledge that has been hidden for millennia from mere mortals. The Da Vinci Code had the Priory of Sion. Fly-fishing probably has its own secret society, its Sect of Enlightened Ones, who can conjure up a trout in adverse conditions. I said there’s “probably” such a secret society. I wouldn’t know for sure because I’ve not been invited to join and am certainly not a likely candidate for membership. I’m just a guy who claims to be a fly fisherman, but all that really means is that I own a few fly rods and take them out to the river every now and then.

 

Catching and releasing a big fish is especially hard because the male ego kicks in once a trout reaches the 18 to 20 inch range. A 20 inch trout just needs to be bragged about and shown off, like a new truck. In fact, many of the same questions apply: What kind is it? (Chevy or Ford, Rainbow or Brown.) How big is it? (Horsepower or inches.) How fast does it go? (Fast enough to scare me.) Maybe size doesn’t matter in all areas of life, but in fishing it does. It’s not the only thing, but it’s usually the main thing.

 

Now you might think that the regulations in a mountain wilderness like the Smoky Mountains would require catch and release, to preserve the wilderness, untouched by humans. After all, it’s illegal it pick wildflowers, ramps, ginseng; pretty much anything. But you can keep any trout over 7 inches.

 

I know what you are thinking: “Seven inches? Doesn’t that mean you can keep all your fish? Aren’t they all bigger than that?” Well, actually, no. Six inches is very common; seven is about average. A 12 inch trout in the Smokies is a big fish. A 12 inch brook trout would be legendary.

 

If you are a bass fishermen, you’re proabably giggling right now, right? Any species where 12 inches is “big” is not worth getting your feet wet. Well, under normal circumstances I might agree with you. But there’s another rule at work in the Smokies: context. Context matters.

 

After a day of catching 6 and 7 inch trout, the occasional 9 or 10 inch fish will make you giggle like a school girl getting ready for her first dance. A 12 inch fish will make you look around for someone to tell your story to. Of course, in such situations you are usually alone, so you have to settle for a moment of self-congratulations. You’ll talk to the fish, even thanking him the way ancient hunters would apologize to an animal’s spirit for catching and killing him, and then you gently slip him back into the water. You part as friends. And, of course, being friends, you make a note of where he lives so you can come back to visit him again.  (Maybe next year when he’s an inch or two longer.)

 

The other part of the “context” is the mountains, rocks, rushing water, rhododendron, and all the other stuff that brought you there. That’s when you remember why you came and spent the day wading in a river. Actually catching fish was one of the reasons, but it wasn’t the only reason. It wasn’t even the main reason. That’s why you don’t regret throwin’ em back.