The Day’s Catch: 22
Spirituality Through Ethical Fishing Practices:
David James Duncan’s The River Why
by Brently Johnson
I suppose reasons beyond my comprehension caused me to bring along a copy of
David James Duncan’s The River Why on an afternoon fishing trip. It’s quite
unlike me—a person who approaches fishing with an adolescent enthusiasm, ripping
through the beautiful wrapping around me to get to the present inside. But I
have waited long enough for the guide’s advice to ring true, for the hatch of
green drakes to come that bring the fat lips of trout with them. Besides, this
is the Metolius River, one of Oregon’s toughest gems to fish. The water runs
delicate and clear, and its trout are as jittery as fugitives in hiding. I have
never caught a fish here, and today remains no different. Even if I did, I could
not keep him due to the catch-and-release policy on this stretch of water. Never
mind, I release most of my fish anyway—a practice that allows me to cast all day
long without a nagging conscience towards what I may be doing to the river’s
health. Or let me say, a practice that allowed me to fish conscience-free until
I read Duncan’s tale.
In the cab of my truck, I pour a third cup of coffee from my thermos, and
Gus, Duncan’s fish-crazed narrator, mirrors my obsession with fishing so closely
it is unnerving. Like me, Gus keeps some of his fish, but once he reaches his
bag limit, he begins to release his catch, which allows him a long day’s worth
of fishing. Gus comments: “We [Gus and his flyrod] caught cutthroat in
staggering numbers, often over a hundred a day. I kept only enough to eat” (83).
Only in my most sadistic fantasies could I catch over one hundred fish in a day,
but if I could I would. And why should I not? All the news I hear tells me how
catch-and-release fishing is the ticket to preserving the future of our streams.
From an article in Backpacker magazine, Dan Schill sums up the data compiled on
fish counts for the Yellowstone River: “I found that where fishermen kept their
catch, the numbers translated to a piscine population of hundreds per river
mile. By comparison, a mile of river governed by catch and release rules might
be packed with thousands of fish.” Fishermen are not the only ones who benefit
from increased releasing of fish. In Sports Afield magazine, Ted Karasote
writes:
After catch-and-release regulations were instituted on
Yellowstone Lake and its feeder streams in 1973, cutthroat trout numbers
increased as much as 14 times in some of the creeks, creating profound ripple
effects. In 1975 grizzly bears fished for cutthroats in 19 percent of the lake’s
feeder streams; by 1980, the bears were using 61 percent of the streams, an
increase that can be attributed directly to catch-and-release regulations.
If the animals vote for catch-and-release, so will I. Keeping Schill’s and
Kerasote’s data in mind, I take my rod in hand and fish hell out of the water,
smiling as if each time I release a fish I befriend the ecosystem. Like Gus in
his early fishing, I fish guilt-free through entire afternoons. Releasing my
fish becomes an act of releasing my conscience. Catch-and-release allows me to
fish more, knowing that I cannot possibly be damaging the river’s fish
population.
Although I have read about “Trout Bums” and had the pleasure of meeting a
few, Gus obsesses over fishing at a level attempted by others but rarely
achieved. He cuts his ties to his family, forgoes college, and essentially
shaves off the fatty parts of life which do not involve fishing. His “ideal
fishing schedule” appeals to anglers like me, allowing him “4,000 actual fishing
hrs. per year!!!” (58). I have not been diagnosed with an affliction of fishing
monomania as severe as Gus’s, but I record each fishing outing in a waterproof
journal. I mark down the weather, the largest fish caught, as well as the number
of fish I land that day. To others, it may seem too technical or removed from
the roots of fishing, but Gus understands. He is a fisherman’s fisherman,
dedicated to his lofty standards for angling.
But as I am beaming in the warmth of my truck, bonding with Gus over our
fishing accolades, I read the line and ponder why he “was disintegrating as a
result of constant fishing” (83). I look down at my Orvis waders, gravel guards,
and Simms wading boots with studs for extra footing. I began like any other
joe-plunker, hucking out line in Bahama shorts with an old pair of tennies on my
feet. What fictional character am I now, trading in my sun visor for polarized
shades? There is no doubt I have strayed from my simple beginnings—but how? As I
read on, Gus begins to realize a loss in all these fishing hours he has gained:
“But what did I do when I rounded a bend and came upon a drinking doe and her
two spotted fawns? Turned to a seductive riffle on the opposite shore. My one-pointedness
was rewarded with an eleven-inch native whose neck I broke as if twisting off a
beer cap” (91). My first reaction was to salute Gus for keeping his fishing
priorities intact, eye-deep in such natural distractions, but the grotesque
description of how he kills the fish sits in my gut like a rusting hook. Despite
the natural beauty around him, Gus “turns” his attentions inward and remains
focused on his one-pointedness—fishing. Removed from any natural connection to
his surroundings, Gus’s kill becomes as casual and ugly as opening a beer;
therefore, he removes beauty from the act of killing as well. Gus seems
incapable of appreciating anything beyond catching fish, but like so many
fishermen, he continues to fish: “By 10 a.m. I had the kind of creel full of
trout that would set most fishermen drooling, and still I persisted, releasing
them now, but performing the ritual to perfection” (91). These lines tip the
tacklebox of my thoughts upside down because Gus describes exactly how I fish,
and I suddenly see the hideousness of such fixated and competitive fishing. Once
Gus catches his limit, he “persists” to fish by practicing catch-and-release;
thus, his preoccupation with fishing continues to consume him. Or put another
way, releasing his fish allows Gus to remain turned in his one-pointedness.
As Gus begins to recognize his “ideal fishing schedule” is failing him as a
satisfying lifestyle, he finds the answers to why his habitual fishing has
caused his “disintegration.” Standing before a clear cut of trees, Gus reaches
an epiphany concerning his treatment of fish: “maiming and murdering trout like
enemies in wartime, ticking them off in my Log by the thousand, robbing them of
all dignity of death by stuffing them, still thrashing in to my creel, or
tallying them like downed bowling pins before flinging them back into the water
[. . .] I was nothing but an aquatic logger” (132). Fish to Gus are like trees
to a logger—a commodity and natural resource to be consumed, and he “goes to
work” at catching fish, instead of approaching their deaths with dignity.
Because he is consumed with catching fish in abundance, he admits he never gave
“a thought about the suffering they [the fish] endured for my amusement” (132).
Gus recognizes the wrongfulness in his fishing methods. When he grieves over
both killed and released fish, Gus shifts the argument away from if we should
kill or release fish to how we should go about doing either.
Not more than twenty yards away, the Metolius runs beneath an opening sky. I
think about warmer temperatures and those promised green drakes, but as if I
have chomped on a nightcrawler and the taste will not go away, I cannot ignore
the fact that killing fish remains more detrimental to their populations. Duncan
seems to hear me and further reveals, through the characters of Gus’s mother and
father, that conservation will be found in our approach to fishing, whether we
choose to release our fish or not.
Gus’s dad, H2O, (short for Henning Hale-Orviston) embodies the quintessential
fly fisherman purist. He enjoys his scotch, fly fishes only, and believes in
strict catch-and-release policies for fishermen. Gus’s mother, Ma—on the other
hand—was raised in eastern Oregon, fishes with worms, and as Gus puts it, Ma and
her friends “kill everything in sight till the fishing goes to pot” (209).
Through Gus’s parents, Duncan exposes how both camps of the catch-and-release
debate often fail in supporting their cause because neither fish with a deeper
purpose in mind.
Gus reflects on his father’s reasons for releasing his fish: “One might
expect in such a pacifist angler some ‘contemplative’ motivation” (110). Gus
searches for a profound meaning behind his father’s belief in catch-and-release.
But what he finds, instead, is that his father’s “freeing of fish was ‘inspired
by no soft-headed mysticism of any kind’; he released fish for just one reason:
‘A dead fish will never strike a fly’” (110). Gus quickly realizes that H2O’s
contradictory reasoning behind releasing his fish is fueled by his obsession to
catch as many fish as he can, not by an underlying moralistic philosophy. H2O,
representing many catch-and-release fishermen, feels that catch-and-release
remains the most effective practice for preserving a river, and although his
intentions are good, releasing fish for this reason only leads him to a
different form of destruction.
Representing the jock-brained, bait fishermen who brag that they only keep
their catch, Ma discards all the philosophical reasoning behind releasing fish.
Gus sums up her beliefs regarding the afterlife as: “she believed there was
nothing to know, so there was nothing to say” (111). Her fishing beliefs reflect
her agnostic views toward a God. Because she dismisses the notion that a greater
being exists, her fishing lacks a spiritual awareness; thus, she feels free to
fish in excess.
The depiction of Ma and H2O as contrasting fishermen ironically shows how
they similarly destroy the fishing wherever they cast their lines. While
fishing, H2O and his buddies “take a hundred pictures [. . .] tell exactly how
to fish it [. . .] and sell this veritable tourist brochure to the biggest
publication they can find” (208). They ruin the fishing by exploiting it
publicly. Ma and her friends “who’d be hanged before they’d reveal” a fishing
hole, but “kill everything in sight” privately exploit fishing (209). Just as
Gus recognizes something missing in his own fishing when he turns from the
fawns, he sees H2O’s and Ma’s lack of appreciation for nature when they fish.
Interestingly, Gus walks the middle line between his parents, catching and
keeping his fish as well as releasing them. Again, Duncan uses Gus to show how
the current debates regarding catch-and-release miss the larger point.
Through his parents’ unsatisfying philosophies on fishing, Gus comes to terms
with his fishing when he discovers that a spiritual connection must exist. Ma’s
simplistic views on life, similar to, “People have to eat, so fish have to die,”
expose her shallow beliefs towards fishing (133). When Gus considers H2O’s
philosophical shortcomings regarding catch-and-release, he ascertains what is
missing from his own fishing: “My father’s arguments against the killing of fish
were based on an inability to understand Sacrifice” (133). Gus comprehends that
the concept of “sacrifice” should define our attitudes towards fishing. H2O,
like so many fishermen who hide behind the ethical shield of releasing their
fish, bases his morals on a false set of principles. Instead of recognizing a
technique of conservation based on graciousness towards fellow creatures, H2O’s
reasons are self-serving, and realizing this helps Gus view fishing as a
spiritual act. He interprets the concept of sacrifice further through religious
teachings: “And according to him [Jesus], you caught fish, you cooked them, you
ate them, you thanked his Father from your heart, and that heartfelt thanks made
the deaths of fish acceptable, made it a sacrament” (133). Sacrament gives
meaning to why we fish. Neither in Ma’s killing of a fish nor in H2O’s releasing
of one do they view their act as a sacrament, so they become susceptible to
greed and ambivalence towards nature. Gus explains: “The thing I found offensive
[. . .] was the smug ingratitude, the attitude that assumed the world and its
creatures owed us everything we could catch, shoot, tear out, alter, plunder,
devour . . . and we owed the world nothing in return” (134). The problem with
catch-and-release remains that it tends to disregard the honorable code of
ethics against greed and exploitation. Fishermen can thoughtlessly catch trout
all day and not stop to give the fish one concern. Releasing fish creates the
illusion that we have done our part; we have put back something we took. But Gus
argues that greed exists at the heart of why most fishermen release their
fish—so they can catch more. Once we begin to perceive fish as a sacrament, we
naturally embark down a path towards conservation.
“A good gamefish is too valuable to be caught only once.” This quote from Lee
Wulff in 1938 serves as the motto for many catch-and-release fishermen. Many
consider Wulff the pioneer of catch-and-release thinking, and although I agree
with his philosophy of releasing fish as a worthy alternative for preserving our
streams, Wulff’s statement reveals how the practice of catch-and-release can rob
fishing of any intrinsic value. Fish become “gamefish,” and the value of
releasing fish is measured not by the benefits gained for the environment, but
by the fisherman’s level of enjoyment. In Backpacker magazine, Todd Wilkinson
states, “Recycling trout makes good ecological sense.” While true on one level,
once we begin to view fish as entities as recyclable as milk jugs or cans of
beer, we sever a vital connection between ourselves and nature. Reading The
River Why helps me see how catch-and-release can induce obsessive habits, which
often leads to viewing fish as objects rather than living creatures. The sport
of fishing then becomes more important than the spiritual consideration of
fishing.
I place The River Why on the dashboard, and I think of all the fish I reeled
in for fun, releasing them with the attitude that the fish exist for my
entertainment. I recall Thoreau’s A Week on the Concord and Merrimac Rivers and
his description of a gentle old man who fished the Tyne River. Thoreau depicts
the man communing with nature while fishing. He writes, “His fishing was not a
sport, nor solely a means of subsistence, but a sort of solemn sacrament and
withdrawal from the world, just as the aged read their Bibles” (152). Thoreau’s
character understands the role of sacrament. He fishes for the same reasons
others might read the Bible—searching for life’s meaning and paying respect to
God. I see a modern day contrast exhibited by a local fishing guide service in
Central Oregon that advertises “100 fish days” on private lakes. Participants
adhere to a strict catch-and-release policy, as if this should ease their
conscience. But this gluttonous desire to catch as many fish as we can,
encouraged by the practice of catch-and-release, draws fishermen away from
achieving a balance with nature. As Gus discovers in The River Why, and as
Thoreau suggests with his fisherman, treating each fish as a sacrament enables a
spiritual process to occur. By giving thanks for the fish we reel in, we become
ourselves, as fishermen, more aware of our role within the natural world around
us.
My fishing journal resting in the passenger seat no longer holds the
sacredness it once did. The journal is for tracking trophies: proof of the
largest fish, the most caught, a good day’s fishing. But Gus causes me to
question, “What constitutes a good day fishing?” Again, through religious
teachings, Gus discovers failures in his former fishing routine. To him, the
Taoist phrase, “Ten Thousand Things,” suggests, “that one cannot seek while
forever counting; it is a phrase that implies that Tao will finally be found in
the nature and not in the number of things” (218). Using this logic, getting
skunked today on the Metolius was a good day. I remember the crunch of pine
needles on the riverbank, the weaving tracks of deer, raccoons, and my own boots
in the snow. Through Gus’s narrative, my experience today becomes enriched when
I actually fish less, and I realize, like Gus, that without limits on the number
of fish I released, “My angling was a contest” (140). The more I become wrapped
up in the numbers game, the farther I separate myself from a complete fishing
experience.
Through a spiritual connection with nature, Gus becomes a more rational
fisherman. He says he began to “cut down on my killing” (209). Near the end of
the book, he declares that he has not fished in months. When he and his
girlfriend, Eddy, finally fish again, he remarks, “And yet we killed two trout.
It’s strange to kill your dance partners, but that’s what we did” (282). Fish
are no longer seen as the enemy or as objects to be counted, but as partners.
Gus reveals his spiritual awakening through the deaths of these trout:
We did it because the world is strange [. . .] whether you choose or don’t
choose to understand and be grateful, it is sacrifice—sweet bleeding
sacrifice—that sustains you. So we killed two trout, but knew no sacrificial
prayers, and so simply knelt by the river, commended them on how well they’d
fought [. . .] then broke their bodies to sustain our own (282).
Since Gus kills the fish in a gracious manner, their deaths are acceptable
and sustain him because they provide his life with profound meaning. Just as a
communion wafer is broken in gratitude and the remembrance of Christ, Gus breaks
the fishes’ body in a way that exhibits his respect for them as nature’s
creatures. His act reveals how the death of one animal can sustain the spirit of
another and shows how, through a spiritual attitude, conservation is achieved.
Gus keeps only two trout and ceases to fish. His new approach towards fishing
removes the greed inherent in his earlier obsessive tendencies.
Fishermen have reached milestones in adjusting their attitudes towards
fishing. The practice of catch-and-release urges us closer to conservation and
to paying respect to a delicate environment. In Haunted by Waters, Mark Browning
sees a new movement in the attitude of catch-and-release fishermen: “Underlying
the philosophy of catch-and-release and other conservation-minded practices one
finds an orientation that has, within the past century, tended away from
consumption and domination and towards preservation and creation” (194-95).
Whereas in Norman Maclean’s classic, A River Runs through It, he and his brother
caught up to 40 fish in a day, the modern film version adapted from the book
ends with the following credits:
No fish were killed or injured during the making of 'A River Runs through
It.' The producers would like to point out that, although the Macleans kept
their catch as was common earlier in this century, enlightened fishermen today
endorse a 'catch-and-release' policy to assure that this priceless resource
swims free to fight another day. Good fishing.
There remains little doubt that fishermen are frequently the very preservers
of our streams. But often I find that the general population connects the term
“conservation” too loosely. By tagging catch-and-release fishing as
“conservation,” we let our consciences off the hook too easily; soon enough,
catch-and-release becomes a loophole for manic anglers—gratuitous fishing
without the guilt. But current research predicts that the mortality rates for
released fish varies between two and ten percent. Supposing an average of four
percent of fish released eventually die, our toll on fish populations mounts
quickly. If a fisherman were to fish thirty days in a summer, catching ten fish
each outing, he would theoretically be killing twelve fish a year. Although the
number is not staggering, it carries the weight of only one fisherman in a year.
As more and more anglers catch-and-release fish in abundance, questions also
arise concerning the quality of the fishing as well as the experience. Elizabeth
Bishop’s widely anthologized poem, “The Fish,” depicts a fish caught previously
by others—from its lip, “hung five old pieces of fish-line” (49). Although the
fish was “tremendous [. . .] He didn’t fight at all” (49), she emphasizes his
emaciated skin and battered body. Of course, the poem finds its fame in the last
line, “And I let the fish go” (50). So the argument over “quality” fishing
persists. Fish and game experts also cite the fish’s adaptation to being caught
and released multiple times. The thought that I could stand right over a fish
without it darting away becomes all too real, and as Elizabeth Bishop indicates
in her poem, fish often know not to put up a fight. Just as limits are set on
how many fish we keep, we owe it to ourselves to impose limits on how many fish
we release as well. As anglers practice catch-and-release with the sole thirst
to catch more fish, we will be left with a new set of issues concerning
conservation. If fishermen follow the teachings of Gus, however, we will see the
key to the future of a vibrant fishery is self-restraint.
The themes I discovered in The River Why suggest solutions to the
contemporary problems of conservation ideals. Gus, as he spiritually matures
through the book, recognizes the need for fishermen to understand sacrament in
order for our rivers to prosper. A philosophical outlook towards fishing helps
him achieve an equilibrium in his pursuits, which encourages conservative
practices. In his article “Catch & Release or Hook & Cook,” Ted Kerasote
maintains an opinion towards catch-and-release different from Duncan’s, but
based on similar foundations. Although he practiced catch-and-release for many
years, Kerasote says he “came to the realization that it was participation in
the life-and-death cycles of nature that I was after, not quantity or simple
amusement.” This mimics Gus’s discoveries about finding pleasure in the “nature
and not in the numbers of things.” Kerasote proposes that we catch “our limit
where permitted and eating it [. . .] then stopping to enjoy the river and the
scenery.” Unlike Duncan, Kerasote dismisses catch-and-release as an ethical
practice, but his awareness of the rewards of contemplation and his notion of
equilibrium reflects what is written in The River Why. Both suggest finding a
balance between fishing and savoring the natural world, which would curb greed
as well as bring a spiritual component to a day of fishing. Reading Duncan’s
book gives me insight on how we can enjoy fishing to its highest degree while
practicing conservation. If we adopt the lessons put forth in The River Why, we
may find more meaning in our fishing. The number of fish we try to catch would
decrease—allowing an equilibrium in our lives to occur—which would bring us
closer to a world in which fishermen and fish coexist. Duncan’s book of stories
and essays, River Teeth, ends with the story, “The Door,” and the narrator, not
unlike Thoreau’s fishing character, communes with nature while fishing. Casting
to a wily trout, the narrator sinks to his knees for stealth, as Duncan writes,
“And kneeling pays” (257). The position for casting to fish imitates the
position of prayer. After catching a magnificent trout then releasing it, the
narrator remarks, “If I were a younger man I’d say the show here was over and
rush, before light failed, to the next likely water or showing fish. But there
are desires the vaunted energy of youth conceals. What I often want now is to be
more present where I am” (258). When we seek the spiritual peace within fishing,
we move closer to finding peace within ourselves.
Works Cited
A River Runs through It. Dir. Robert Redford. 1992. Videocassette. Columbia,
1993.
Bishop, Elizabeth. The Complete Poems. New York: American Book-Stratford
Press, 1969.
Browning, Mark. Haunted by Waters. Athens: Ohio UP, 1998.
Duncan, David James. River Teeth. New York: Bantam Books, 1995.
---. The River Why. San Francisco: Sierra Club Books, 1983.
Kerasote, Ted. “Catch & Release or Hook & Cook.” Sports Afield 220 (1998): 4
pp. Ebsco Host. 15
Oct. 2000 <http:llwww.ebscohost.com>.
Thoreau, Henry David. A Week on the Concord and Merrimac Rivers. New York:
Charles Scribner’s
Sons, 1921.
Wilkinson, Todd. “The One That Gets Away.” Backpacker 23 (1995): 4 pp. Ebsco
Host. 16 Oct. 2000
<http:llwww.ebscohost.com>.
