The Lone Angler

THE BOISE RIVER flows just beyond my office door, passing Fortune 500 companies and a cadre of office complexes and eateries. Along its banks is a twenty-five-mile greenbelt where hundreds of people walk, bike, jog, roller blade, and relax.

This day was no exception. Warm temperatures and clear October skies had conspired to lure me and many others from our desks. Corporate warriors in suits had traded wingtips and stilettos for walking shoes. All sought a dose of nature as autumn wound down. Benches and riverbanks beckoned, but something was amiss. A dozen or more people huddled along the near bank, pointing toward midstream at a lone angler.

It’s not unusual in this stretch of water to see someone in a dress shirt and waders; an angler who carried a fly rod a mere fifty yards from the office to seek a little river therapy. This guy, however, was not idly casting for a mid-day trout. Idaho Fish and Game folks occasionally release hatchery steelhead into the Boise River in the fall, and he was fighting a recent parolee.

People along the greenbelt generally receive a passing nod or pleasant hello from others. Not that day. This was an event. Gawkers mingled, chatted, pointed, and shared stories, all firmly focused on the Lone Angler attached to a big fish.

Each decision he made was instantly dissected and analyzed by the growing gallery. Advice, wittingly or unwittingly whispered aloud, received cursory acknowledgement from others. “Keep that tip up… yeah, that’s it.” “Careful, don’t horse it.” “Let him run. Let him run!” “Follow it—go!”

Minutes crept by and, despite numerous perceived errors, the Lone Angler was still hooked to his fish. As the vigil continued, the crowd grew. So, too, did the shared desire for a satisfactory conclusion. The throng wanted to see that steelhead in the net, so much so that the group’s collective excitement gradually gave way to individual tension.

About ten or twelve minutes in, the Lone Angler had worked his steelie into shallow upstream waters. Everyone on the bank could then see just how grand the fish really was. “Gotta be ten pounds, maybe more!” “Look at that glorious pink stripe.” “Oh my god, thirty inches?” “You think? In this river?”

The beautiful, beefy, fall-run steelhead was a mere rod length from possession. And then… a burst of energy summoned from ancient genetic stock propelled the fish into heavy current along the opposite bank. Sensing its final opportunity, and whisked along by the river’s power, it darted in a heartbeat past the Lone Angler and, just that quickly, it was over. The line went limp, and the steelhead was free.

Perhaps some witnesses silently cheered that the magnificent fish had won to fight another day. But the young man in shirt and tie holding the rod appeared on the edge of collapse. He literally slapped his forehead in disbelief. One young woman in executive attire quietly sobbed.

I don’t recall much about the Lone Angler other than he seemed to lose control of his upper body as he slumped to the waterline. After a heart-breaking minute or so, he gathered himself and turned to wade out, pausing for a moment to gaze upon the gathered entourage. He seemed truly stunned to see the multitude that had gathered, engaged in his every move. I wondered if he had any inkling of the hubbub on river’s edge during his encounter, or if he’d been so properly focused on the fish that it rendered him oblivious.

Not that it mattered. Time had stopped for the Lone Angler on a beautiful day in October, as it had for the congregation he’d attracted. Each given a short respite from the challenges and stressors of the day. Friends and strangers, coworkers, anglers and non-anglers, parents and children, mesmerized by a Lone Angler and a Big Fish.