Matthew Dickerson, Addison Independent, February 22, 2001 (reprinted by permission)
There are, not surprisingly, several things that I enjoy about fishing. I enjoy coming back to the same stretch of river I've fished a hundred times or more, and casting to the same spot (possibly even the same fish) I've been casting to for years, and enjoying both how much it can stay the same--and also how much it can change from day to day and year to year.
I also enjoy exploring new rivers. There are days when I'm out fishingthat I slip into "exploration mode": I get so excited about what I might discover ahead that I just start walking, moving from hole to hole as rapidly as my legs will carry me, almost forgetting to fish. This is hard to explain if you've never experienced it. If you have experienced it, it needs no explanation. To the avid angler, the "next corner" has a meaning that is almost mythical in significance. This is, perhaps, one of the reasons it is so difficult to stop fishing at the end of the day. There is always the next corner; it is always ahead of you, and it always holds the possibility of being the best corner on the river. Unfortunately, no matter how far and how long you fish, you can never reach that next corner, because wherever you are, you are always stuck on this corner.
When I enter exploration mode, it is usually detrimental to my catching fish because I'm working the water too quickly to exercise the necessary care to hook a cautious trout. Occasionally, however--like in a stream with a low population of trout--exploration mode works to my advantage because I cover more water. In any case, whether it helps or hinders my catching of fish is irrelevant; the exploration itself has become the main reason for fishing.
This is part of the reason I am looking forward to an upcoming trip to visit my older brother Ted in western North Carolina. It is also part of the reason I am nervous about the trip. North Carolina holds the dubious distinction of being the only state in which I have fished but never caught a fish. My family spent Thanksgiving vacation of 1999 visiting my brother and his family. Ted, as avid of an angler as myself, arranged for us to spend a late November day with a friend of his on a famous trout stream up in the Blue Ridge Mountains. I fished about eight hours that day, and saw a handful of trout, but caught nothing. The only consolation was that neither my brother nor his friend caught a fish either. Nonetheless, that day has haunted my memory ever since.
So now I look forward to the chance not only to do some exploration in completely new territory (to me) but also to the chance to redeem myself. Or, rather, the chance for North Carolina to redeem itself. But what if I (or it) fails? Then I'll have had two days of fishing there without a fish. One day and I can blame the weather, or my guide, or the fishing pressure on the river. But two days? That would be a tough blow to my ego.(It would also be a tough blow to my column as I'll have nothing to write about in two weeks.)
What this all boils down to, I guess, is that if evening rolls around after our day of fishing, and I still haven't caught anything, then that next corner is going to become awfully important. So important, that I might not stop fishing until I actually reach it.