The Perfection of Chaos

Editor's note: This piece comes to us from Jason Rolfe and was one of five finalists in the Be Steelheaded essay contest. Rolfe lives in Seattle with his fiancee and their three pets. He recently left a job in education to pursue interests in conservation and flyfishing. See more of his work at www.syzygyflyfishing.com.

By Jason L. Rolfe

All steelheaders are realists. We grasp at perfection, telling ourselves we can create some sort of order out of it all--we tie beautiful flies, we make long, tight casts, we try for the perfect swing. But we know when a steelhead takes a fly or lure all bets are off. I learned this the first time I hooked a steelhead, on a fishing trip with my stepfather, Dave, when I was 8 years old.

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The morning was wet, but bright, and at some point during the long succession of casts my line came tight, and it felt suddenly like a gorilla was out there beneath the surface of the water, holding the little spoon and yanking back on it as hard as he could. My eyes widened and I leaned back on the rod, lifting the tip with all the leverage I could muster. The surface of the water bulged and broke as a steelhead came free to tail walk several feet upstream. I was terrified--terrified at the size of it, terrified at the loud cheers of other fishermen that erupted all around me on the bank, terrified I might somehow disappoint my stepfather in the landing of it, lose the fish and thus his love.

Dave calmly told me to reel, to let it run, to pull back, to pressure it from one side or the other. To my surprise, after runs and jumps and deep thrashing rolls, the fish was near the bank, only a few feet away. In that moment I thought this all made sense. I thought this was how it went.

When Dave reached for the line and took it in his hand the fish gave a shake of its head, thrashed the water, and was gone. My eyes followed the line from Dave's hand to the spoon dangling free. Kids have a way of seeing the deeper meaning in things, even if they can't articulate it, and though I was disappointed to lose that fish and even blamed Dave for it to some extent, I understood as well that I had gotten as much as could be expected and I never forgot the visceral thrill of those few minutes with that fish. The moment it took the spoon, I knew I had no chance and I was scared. Of what, exactly, I don't know. But I had no illusions about what I was connected to--I expected nothing more than what I was getting right then and there.

And that's what I chase now. Not pictures. Not bragging rights. Not numbers or size or anything else quite so tangible. I chase the precise moment when it all falls apart, when it tips over to chaos. I don't want to be in control, and that's why I steelhead. I steelhead to remind myself that, as I learned when I was 8, there are no sure things in this life.

And therein lies the perfection.