Ron’s worried about his faculties which is not uncommon for people of a certain age. He’s been reading a book called The Buddha’s Brain. It seems to be about how the brain works according to modern researchers and how that matches up with some of the old wisdom practitioners, mostly Buddhists. The authors advise you on how to do a little re-grooving for the future. According to the book it’s never too late to take five deep breaths and think a happy thought. He’s trying to explain all this to me as we cover the last few miles on the Golden Road. We’re going up to fish a stretch of river below the Sebomook Dam. We’ll spend the night in tents. Separate tents. Even the Buddha couldn’t get a good nights sleep with my snoring.
After we get the camp set up we launch the canoe. The river’s lower than I’ve seen it and everything’s slow, but we poke around here and there and the afternoon sunshine is almost as good as a fish.
“What kind of fisherman do you think the Buddha would have been?” I ask from the stern of the canoe.
“Not like us,” and then after a pause. “He would have no desire for a fish. I’m still at the ‘want to catch a fish’ stage.”
“Yeah, me too. I think I’ll change to a full sink line and a nymph, see if I can desire something up from the bottom.”
“Buddha would have definitely been a catch and release guy. Barbless hooks.” and with that Ron makes another cast.
“I wonder if there were any trout in India?”
“If there weren’t, I’m sure some Englishman carried some there and then wouldn’t let any Indians fish over them.”
We’ve had a slow afternoon of it and instead of trout, we’ve cooked weenies on sticks with a pot of beans. Oreos for dessert. But now we’re comfortably kicked back on our camp chairs with a bottle of Jameson’s and cigars.
Ron’s messing with the fire. Sparks rise up into the night sky. He likes to mess with the fire. After he’s finished I ask him, “What kind of fisherman would Jesus have been?”
He looks up to where the last spark extinguishes in the sky. “Well, he was a guide. He saw Simon Peter and the sons of Zebedee fishing one day. He watched them a bit and they weren’t having much luck. So he shouts out to them, ‘Hey. Try the other side of the boat.’ They take his advice and their nets come in chock a block full. His reputation was made. He didn’t need to add to it with the miracle of the fishes and the loaves. That was just gravy. He could have had all the guiding business he ever wanted just with that first bit of advice. They still talk about it”
The fire’s dying down. We won’t add any more sticks.
“And what about Mohammed?”
Ron stands up before he speaks, “Fish are pretty rare in the desert, but old Mohammed he’d just wade into the stream with a couple of sticks of dynamite in the pockets of his fly vest and,“ he tosses his cigar into the fire, ”kaboom! Hundreds of fish floating downstream toward Mecca with their white bellies floating up.”
One more sip and it’s time to turn in for the night.
We get up early and Ron’s getting the fire going, making some cowboy coffee as I stroll down to the water to give it a look. Up by the point there’s folded up ledge coming out of the river to a little bluff. In the water, off that point there’s a rise. Thirty seconds later another rise. Finally, some fish. I hustle back to get Ron and we grab our rods. We can make breakfast later, now there’s a little sport to be had.
Down the shoreline there’s this one steep spot where you have to hold on a bit to get around the rocks. I hold Ron’s rod as he climbs around the outcropping to the other side. Then I pass both rods to him and follow, but about half way around I have a misstep. Down I go. I bounce once before I manage to twist onto my butt and bump the rest of the way down into the water. Beneath the bluff it's deep, over my head, and unexpectedly chilly. I grab my hat before it floats away and manage to pick up a fly box that has floated out of an open pocket and then dog paddle down stream about ten yards until I can stand up. Ron has watched all this. The clatter seems to have put the fish down. He’s eyeing me like he’s not sure whether he should ask how I am or not. Finally he starts laughing.
I stand there dripping. Still about waist deep.
“Do you want your rod now?” he asks. “Or a towel?”
I compose myself and try to stop my teeth from chattering. “Chuang Tzu tells a parable about fishermen. It goes like this, ‘The common fisherman chases fish in a hundred different directions. To him it’s a great battle. Empires rise and fall at the end of his line. If he can fool a fish with a grub and a float dangling from his bamboo stick he can feed his family. When he does it’s a fine day, but more often they’ll go hungry. The better fisherman has raised his craft to an art. Through years of careful study he knows fishing. He knows when the fish rise in the morning and where they rest at night. He knows when they arrive from the sea and the shade of every dazzling scale on their backs. He knows their desires. He is ready with a false cricket so cunningly made that you couldn’t tell it from a live one. You would expect it to sing. No rock in the river is a stranger to him. He offers his bait so skillfully and with such deft timing that it is rarely refused. That’s a good fisherman. But then, then there is the true fisherman. No man even knows him. He would rather sit quietly by the wild river than be the emperor. He doesn’t need a rod or a fly. He understands the Tao. He just stands in the river and the fish swim into his pockets.’ Behold, Ron, I’m fishing with the ancients.”
Buddha Fishing