There is a strong correlation between the perceived magnitude of quiet and calm at home upon trip’s end and the cumulative cacophony and exuberance expressed while afoot and in the field. Like ringing ears after a rock-and-roll show, a senses hangover, so to speak, accompanies attendees long after the affair itself, serving as both reminder and artifact. Something happened; something big, loud, and outstanding and it will reverberate for some time. Thankfully so and for a long, long time, if we’re lucky.

This phenomenon was illustrated to me twice in the last few months, as I gathered with vast collections of noble, lasting friends alongside fishing waters. Admittedly, these assemblies were catalyzed only in part by the actual fishing — the primary reason being my forthcoming wedding and thus, the required and almighty bachelor party. So fortunate am I to call so many a friend, that not one but two bachelor parties were necessary to properly send-off this rapidly-expiring bachelor.

Fishing with friends in such great numbers is a unique trial and balance of competing interests: the fishing and the socializing. It is impossible, or at least it proved to be, to do both with all friends at all times. Further, doing one for extended periods of time is impossible to do without strongly considering the other.

As in: Are the fishes biting wildly now? Are there insects hatching at this hour? Are they rising up like birds? Is so-and-so reeling ‘em in?

Or: What are they doing at the cabin? Is a warm and cozy fire burning? Is supper on? Is so-and-so telling an old story while so-and-so mixes drinks?

And so on.

—

Jesse!

Jessnuts!

Robbins!

J-Rob!

J!

JACK!

I can’t recall times when my name been called with such frequency as at these two gatherings and this occurred to me in the evening on the final day of the second party just how fun it was, yet also how rare; how exciting, yet how brief. And ultimately, how special.

In response, I offered my own nickname of the caller or a simple, YO!! Something good surely followed.

—

Anyway, the fishing.

The angling venues of these parties excellently accommodated large numbers of fishers — one, a small, welcoming pond in the middle of the woods with several vessels at hand; the other, a clear, cold mountain spring creek with ample and easy wading access.

The abodes at each party — both decades-old cabins filled with off-the-charts measures of character and stories of their own — offered glimpses of the waters in question and, with slight effort, superb viewing points from which to observe anglers in action. In following, certain points of angling on the pond or in the river also offered glimpses of the socializing in action. The result was that there was healthy chatter in several forms: at the cabin about the water and/or those on or in it; from the cabin to those on or in the water; on the water about the cabin and/or those in it; and, from the water to those at the cabin.

We fished. Some fished more or less than others. Some fish were caught by some of those who fished. Some of those who caught fish were congratulated or complimented; some of those who did not catch fish were also congratulated or complimented nonetheless. Some of those who caught fish were questioned as to the means by which they caught said fish and/or invited to defend their claims that they caught fish at all. Some of those who did not catch fish provided potential justifications for why this was so and/or asked for advice or console from others who did or did not catch fish. And, some of those who did not fish offered commentary as to how they would’ve caught fish, had they fished at all.

Like I said, we fished.

—

With Alex, I fished in the hardest downpour of the day. Together, we caught one. Wilkie had picked the fly from my box.

With Andy, I fished without waders until my feet were numb and then I hobbled back to the cabin.

I watched Wilkie and Jasper fish from the dock, certain that both would hook one at the exact same time.

Hallas and Marco and I crossed the river with six fly rods and six beers between us.

From that same dock, I stood and watched the rotating cast of anglers, in pairs, meander, circle, and zig-zag their way around the pond in various vessels.

Bryan and I made first casts together and fished in all the spots the trout should’ve been.

Ty and Juddy and Tripp and Gary came, cooked, ate, drank, laughed and then left us with the rain.

Despite a recovering injury, S. biked and swam and DJ’d and called in the DJ.

Clark fished the longest, I believe, and also caught the most fish, I believe. If correct, it would not have been the first time.

Marco and I changed flies… 16 (?) times and still couldn’t pick the right one.

Chi went over his waders but after he was done fishing so it wasn’t a big deal.

Myles asked why we had never gone fishing together and I had no answer.

Zack, Jay, and Paul did all their fishing from the porch and the driveway and the riverbank, and still caught as many as I did.

Morley took care of me and us with fine, fine food and drink, as always.

Chip came late with a shot of energy and stories and encouragement a big heart.

Pete and I told fishing story after fishing story while we watched the others fish.

Al and Pat fished in the rain and got drenched but didn’t care one bit. When I asked how they were doing, they said they’d dried out sitting by the fire.

The biggest smiles and the best sleeping-in were exhibited by Jake, who regaled us with his international fishing exploit stories.

Keith remained dressed for tuna fishing for the whole weekend and remains my captain.

From the other side of the river, I watched Andy and Will hooked one after another, for a few minutes.

Patty rowed the row boat very well though I don’t believe a rod was among his accompaniments.

—

In both instances, before the final fisher-partiers departed and the parties dispersed, we all stood in a circle, not far from the water’s edge, kicking the dirt, telling a final story or joke, checking the time, looking at the sky and the trees and each other and, of course, the water. Mentioned aloud or not, everyone considered a final few casts or brief session on the water, calculating where and how they might fish, should they put waders back on or flip the boat back over and shove off.

This is why, perhaps, the fishing never ceases nor ends — because it is never final. It never concludes, even when it is over. There is always something else to be done and to try, and always somewhere else to see it done and see it tried.

And — thankfully, hopefully — always someone or someones else to fish it with.

Cheers, gents. Thanks for everything.

—