Checkmate

From chapter six of John Eldredge's book, The Journey of Desire.

"It started five years ago with my annual fishing trip. Those of you unfamiliar with fly-fishing must rid your minds of the images of that other kind – guys in their lawn chairs down at the city pond, chugging cheap beer while they attempt to fool fish with flourescent pink, garlic-flavored cheese balls beneath an enormous bobber. You wonder if they haven't met their match. To compare that with a day on a high mountain stream pursuing wild trout through the elegance and serenity of fly-fishing is like comparing the mini mart at your gas station to Nordstrom's or professional wrestling to gymnastics, or the Simpsons to Shakespeare. Enough said.

This yearly pilgrimage has always been for me a time of consumate pleasure, a banquet of beauty with deep friendship and adventure. Then it all began to unravel. I had scheduled a few days on the Frying Pan River in Colorado in late May the fishing there is legendary, and recent reports had been phnomenal. But as a friend and I drove up to the river, it began to rain. Not to worry, I thought. Late spring often brings rain. It'll blow over in an hour or two. As we climbed into the mountains, the rain turned into a snowstorm that lasted the entire trip.

I began to play chess with God. The following year, I planned our trip for July to elimate all possibility of snow. I booked several days at a private ranch that caters to fly fisherman, with a guide to take us out on the upper Rio Grande. The night before we were to leave, I received a call telling me that no, it had not snowed, but thunderstorms had created mud slides and the fishing was impossible. They offered to refund my money.

I sensed that God had made a countermove, and that my king was in danger. Grabbing my phone book, I found the number of another guide on a different river and called him. Yes, the fishing was fabulous. Yes, he could take us out tomorrow. I hung up the phone with a smile. Your move, God. When we arrived early the next morning, the fellow said sadly, "It's the strangest thing, but they opened the dam last night and the river's flooded. Sorry 'bout that."

The next year it was a drought; the year after that we still don't know what happened. High in the meadows of the Eastern Sierra, the fish had seemed to simply vanish from the San Joaguin. I was losing the game, as you can tell. But I hadn't been cornered; not yet.

Last year I was invited to speak at a conference near Bend, Oregon. It is a place very dear to me, full of memories from my childhood. The Deschutes River flows through there, and I was looking forward (can you believe my tenacity?) to some great time on the water with my new fly rod. (Country musicians usa a fiddle, but to play Mozart you need a violin. Bait fisherman use poles, while fly fisherman use rods.) I made what I felt would be my winning move. A friend arranged access for me to a private stretch of the Deshutes, a ranch visited each year by only a handful of people. The caretaker was an old master fly fisherman. When the owner of the shop in town learned where I was headed, he looked around furtively, leaned across the counter, and whispered, "Mister, that may be the best one hundred yards of fishing in the United States." Something smiled in my heart and said, Check.

Old Bill was a marvelous fisherman, and as we walked down to the water, he realized, "I'm thinkin'... let's see... you're the first guy to fish this since last October." Six months ago, I thought. This is going to be incredible. You know what's coming next. Nothing. We caught nothing. BIll had a funny look on his face. "John," he said, "people come from all over the world to fish this ranch. I've never had a day like this... ever." Feeling for all the world like Jonah, I said, "Bill, this is not about you. The fishing will be great tomorrow after I've gone." Checkmate.