Searching for Gold Amongst the Browns

I told myself no matter how small the first fish I caught on the fly was, I would eat it. But I’d become so accustomed to failure that I nearly stopped bringing a cooler along altogether. The Herculean task of catching anything but memories on the fly had turned my river excursions into prime pondering time. I had a lot to ponder.

My mother was diagnosed with liver cancer a few years back. It hadn’t been easy for her, and doctors routinely expressed disbelief she was even alive after all she’d been through. But my mother was tough. Real tough. Her going down without a fight was about as unthinkable as using crankbait on a fly rod, which I regret to say I’ve tried. But when the going gets tough, the dumb get dumber. After the fourth or fifth pond pig my buddies had caught one hot July night using crankbaits and Ugly Stiks, I gave in to temptation and tied a crankbait on the end of my leader and chunked it.

Anyway, my mother had been a warrior during her treatment, and nearly three years and a dozen straight days in the hospital later, she was close to getting on the transplant list. But her health was getting worse, and it was a race against time.

I stood in the middle of the frigid river in late March, but my mind was far away. She had been rushed to the hospital that afternoon, dehydrated and delirious. The earliest I could get there was the next morning, and with no better way to calm a restless spirit, in the icy river I stood. I was pondering life and death and solving all the world’s problems in my head when I snagged my line on some vegetation. I pulled but it wouldn’t budge. My line darted to the left and I saw a flash of gold amongst the green moss on the river bottom. As I pulled my line tighter a beautiful brown trout emerged from the river, still biting at the nymph that hung from its mouth.

On the one hand, I was ecstatic; after more than a year and endless taunts from friends I had finally caught my first fish on a fly rod, and it was no small fry. But on the other hand, what peculiar timing. How could something so good, something I’d worked at for so long, happen on such a dark day?

I thought back to a couple of years ago when I was fighting in a $1 million MMA tournament. Initially an underdog in the tournament, after a few hard-fought battles I found myself one win away from the $1 million fight. Near the end of the first round of the semi-final fight, my opponent wobbled me with some knees from the clinch, and the ref waved the fight off with ten seconds to go in the first round. I was infuriated. I immediately protested, yelled at the promoter, and walking backstage I stared daggers at some bald guy I later identified as Bill Goldberg, the pro wrestler. My opponent acknowledged the stoppage might have been a bit early in his speech, which only pissed me off more. Once backstage I ranted, said some words that ESPN couldn’t air, and felt sorry for myself. It was in this dark moment that my coach offered me some wisdom that has stuck with me ever since.

He told me regardless of how I felt, what happened, happened. The past is just that: the past. The focus now should be on the future, and the only reason to mull over what happened was to find the gold in the situation and use it moving forward. Wise advice, and after some time I took it to heart and became a better fighter and man because of it.

But how the hell does one find the gold in watching their mother die a slow, painful death? I looked down at the brown trout wriggling in my hands and heard my girlfriend cheering and clapping from the bank. It was a good catch, especially for my first. But if I added up all the time, money, and days spent driving to stand in an icy stream with nothing to show for my efforts but some nymphs in a tree and a broken spirit, I can’t say it made much sense. But I was happy, and despite my best efforts to keep my demeanor as overcast as the skies above, I was able to eke out a smile for the camera.

If the sole good thing about all that time spent was merely the fish itself, it would make a poor prize. The gold in fly fishing wasn’t the brown trout I held in my hands; it was the silence and peace the stream provided to ponder such things. The rhythm of the cast, the hope in every drift—the water had carried my worries downstream this past year and never asked for anything in return. That’s what made it all worth it. I thought of my mom in her struggle—slow, uncertain, and diligent. It wasn’t the outcome, but the quiet persistence that mattered. We’re all going to die one day. I don’t know much about trout behavior or dry dropper strategies, but I do know that much. Although she’s suffered, my mom did get to make her peace over the last few years. Not just her, but all of her family and friends at least got the chance to say what they needed to say, even if it was just a tentative “see you later.” While it’s hard to find the bright side in death, most of us won’t be given those opportunities, which are rare. Maybe that was the gold in this situation. Not the catch itself, or even the peace of the river—but the way all of it mirrored life.

Fly fishing had become this long, frustrating pursuit that demanded all of my patience but gave nothing back for a long time. It reminded me of my mom, who had fought so hard waiting for a transplant, only to find herself seemingly knocking on death’s door as soon as she was on the cusp. There were no guarantees: just the cast, the drift, and the quiet hope that something might rise. And eventually, it did. Sometimes, against all odds, life gives you something beautiful right in the middle of your worst day. I can only pray that this remains true for my mother.

I don’t know if catching my first trout during all this meant anything. It was probably dumb luck, fortuitous timing, or just a fluke. But I needed a win, however small, as a reminder that persistence has its place, even when the outcome isn’t clear. My mom doesn’t know much about my fishing exploits and she has bigger fish to fry at the moment (pun intended). But I know she understands what it means to keep showing up and fighting through the doubt in the elusive search to find gold—however small—in the middle of all that struggle.

I suppose sometimes the gold isn’t in what you catch, but in knowing you kept casting anyway.