Everything that’s happened, all
that’s yet to come
Is here inside this moment, it’s
the only one.
-Mason Jennings
For fast acting relief, try slowing down.
-Lily Tomlin
I’m both a birder and a fly angler. This poses a time conundrum for folks like me, who have the privilege of time—namely that here in New England, bird-watching and fly-fishing both “turn on” in April, peak in May, and slow down in late summer. It would seem, then, that at any given moment, choosing to do one would require choosing not to do the other. Fortunate as I am to be faced with two equally gratifying options, it’s never an easy choice. So, when my son asked me to compete in the Otter Creek Classic fly-fishing tournament, I was happy to let him choose for me that weekend.
Steve Atocha of Middlebury Mountaineer started the OCC with fly-angler and friend Jesse Haller fifteen years ago to raise money for community outreach and conservation. Though participants—who range in skill level from junior to amateur to pro—enjoy an ethos of friendly competition and camaraderie, the early spring timing makes this a HARD tournament. Early season snowmelt combined with fast, deep, frigid water means most of us won’t catch fish.
Which is the predicament I was in by 9:50 am on Sunday morning, April 16th. It was the final day of the tournament, two-hours from closing time. Temps flirted with 85-90 thanks to a freak April heat wave that made the air too hot for waders but the water too cold for wet-wading. By then we’d been standing in the water in a rubber-suit, casting desperately to sluggish fish for 15-hours, with breaks only for snacks and sleep. Despite our best tactical efforts, neither my son nor I had caught so much as a minnow. I’d just snagged bottom on a log, lost my dozenth fly of the morning, and decided to call it.
I slumped down on a rock, my rod on my lap, and looked ten yards upstream to where my twelve-year-old bravely stood thigh-deep in the strong current--unfaltering. The sun shone down on the water, making it glisten—as if the water all around him somehow reflected the starry version of a daytime sky. He wasn’t done, or at least, not as done as I was.
I didn’t want to pull him away.
I lay my rod down, sat on my rock, watched my son, the birds, the river. A phoebe belted his burry song from somewhere nearby—free-BEE, free-BEE, free-BEE. I spotted him flitting from under the bridge to the opposite bank, to a high maple bow, back to the bridge. He made his brief, quadratic journey several times in the exact same way.
I wondered, was he the lookout who protected his mate while she built the nest that would house their hatchlings? Had he been there this whole time, keeping any eye on me? How had I failed to hear his persistent song?
My answer to the last question was easy. The phoebe’s song eluded me because I had been fishing the opposite way that I watch birds: I had been hunting. Chasing trout to win a spot on the OCC15 leaderboard, which was not at all in line with the spirit of the event. The moment I decided to “give up,” collapsing in a hot, spent heap on the rock behind me, is the moment I was free to hear the phoebe’s song.
I watched the busy phoebe for a long time from my rock, all but forgetting my quest for trout. In those moments, my world became—not smaller, per se—but simpler: The phoebe singing to my east, the river rushing by in front of me, the warmth radiating from the rock wall behind me, my son casting his line over the glittering current to my west. I watched until my heart rate slowed, until I felt I had enough space from the chase that I could conceive of re-rigging my rod and casting once again. But this time, with no expectation. Just for practice. Just for fun.
As a beginner angler, I often find myself painfully overwhelmed by fly-selection. But this time I felt myself as if standing in a place that time forgot. It is from within this place that I managed to effortlessly rerig my rod with precisely the tippet and fly combination designed for these rough, early-spring conditions. (5x fluorocarbon and a red squirmy worm above a batman prince nymph—in case you were wondering.)
Did it work? Well, yes—in the sense that what I “got” was a reminder of why I fish, or watch birds, or do anything, really.
Mason Jennings might have said it best when he sang, “Be here now, no other place to be.” I don’t do these things for the catch or the capture, but for that feeling—all too rare these days—of time standing still.
For More Birding Fun:
See below for species added to our family's 2023 backyard life list.
To learn to bird by ear (how I bird while fishing!), download the larkwire app. I bought the Eastern landbird song pack and it was well worth the fee. https://www.larkwire.com/.