Al Kyte's Life Take-Aways

           

Sometimes it’s the unusual occurrence that comes to mind when I reminisce—even about days spent fishing.  From the 1970s through the 1990s, I took frequent trips to the upper reaches of the Sacramento River to fish and guide.  I was often drawn to a particular stretch of water where a steep, rocky shoreline forced the flow around a huge bend, narrowing to form a series of the most beautiful trout pools in the area.

There was only one obstacle to my fishing those pools.  There was a cabin back on the flat land on the inside of that curve within sight of the water.  An old man lived there with an impressively large watchdog that would start barking loudly and incessantly as soon as he became aware of anyone’s presence on the river.  So ferocious was that dog’s behavior that I would immediately start backing off from my fishing so as to be elsewhere when he reached the river.  When approaching that water to fish, I learned to move slowly and quietly, hiding from view of that cabin as long as possible.  I hoped to fish through the first three pools before that dog became aware of my presence.  Succeeding in that would typically result in at least one very large trout taking my fly before the call to retreat.  

There came a day that was different.  I had fished through the first two pools without alerting the dog, but had caught no fish either.  The third pool was the best one and had never let me down, so I knew I was about to catch a nice fish.  I was wrong.  Surprisingly the dog had not yet seen me, so for the first time ever, I fished the fourth pool which I found to be in full view of the cabin.  At that point I knew something was not right.  I reeled in my line and did what I had never done before.  I started walking toward that old, wooden building.  Still, no dog.

At the cabin there was no sign of life.  Peeking into an opening that had been a window, I scanned the one-room interior, now stripped of furniture and other possessions.  The old man must have died or for one reason or another could no longer live there.  And what had happened to my longtime adversary, that ever-watchful dog?  Suddenly I was overcome with a sadness, an unforeseen sense of loss.  I began to wish I had known that old timer and learned from how he had managed to live on that remote bend in the river.  I found myself regretting that I was so often preoccupied with catching fish that I failed to pick up on some broader perspective right there before my eyes but soon to be gone.

And it dawned on me why the fishing there had always been so good.  It wasn’t due primarily to my long experience and skillful techniques after all.  That dog’s vigilant presence, that had made my days there so uncomfortable, not only had protected his companion from intruders but had also protected “my fish” from so many other anglers who had backed off sooner than I or had decided to avoid that bend altogether.  But now, with no watchful deterrent, the fishing had clearly deteriorated.  So it was my enemy that had been most responsible for my having so many exceptional fishing moments there.  As I thought about that, I began to wonder how often the obstacles in our lives are beneficial to us in ways we are slow to see.   Maybe, when circumstances become challenging, I need to shift my focus to looking for silver linings.