From Cast to Consumption: An Angler’s Thoughts on Ethics and Considerations when Harvesting.
Big smiles for a big fish! Mr. Henry Wallison poses in one of his secret rivers with a brown trout that had been netted.
I do not recall when it first occurred to me that I had never been responsible for the taking of another animal's life in service of my own. I had, of course, killed animals before, including more insects than I care to consider, a frog tragically underfoot while running in the rain, and a harrowing incident involving three juvenile mice. But none of these animals' lives were taken in contribution to my nourishment; they were instead taken out of irritation (as with many insects), by mistake (as with the frog and many insects), or for mercy (as with the mice and many insects).
The moral discourse surrounding one's choice of omnivory versus herbivory is very nuanced and could only be adequately handled through multiple volumes of Bible-length works. In my investigations, I've concluded that omnivory has the potential to be morally sound, but I also determined that my existing relationship with meat is inconsistent with morally justifiable omnivory. By being wholly disconnected from the sources of my meat, I have foregone any responsibilities and obligations that have characterized predator-prey relationships for nearly all of human history. I needed to get involved in the process, or I needed to quit eating meat; I chose the former over the latter.
The natural point of entry for me was in angling. I grew up in a Northern Michigan town known by many for its history of fishing, so in some ways, the sport felt like my heritage. I couldn't honestly say I had never been fishing before, but for all of my know-how, I may have well been a virgin on the water. For the generations that preceded me, I think the skills of bushcraft were more of a given, driven to some extent by necessity. From the stories I've heard, I'm reasonably sure that the concept of "catch-and-release" fishing would have struck my grandfather as peculiar. But, as the need for wild meat has decreased, so has the transmission of the hard skills that inform its acquisition. I suspect quite strongly that my lack of teaching largely explains why most of my earliest trips were skunked.
What's more, I think I had a split mind regarding my decision. I wanted to catch fish to eat, but I was ill-prepared for the actualization of this goal. This is to say, when I did get a fish in hand, I would get cold feet.
One time early on, I did almost 'pulled the trigger'. I was fishing the bend of a small creek in Lansing, and myriad bluegill expressed interest in my suspended worm when a dark form materialized in the depths. It was a healthy-sized largemouth that hit the hook like a truck. I set and eagerly reeled him to the bank. But the fish was too heavy, dragging in the mud as I went to unhook him. Sizing him up, I knew he was a keeper. With the hook out, I unthinkingly went to rinse the mud from his flanks before bringing a rock down between his eyes. But, of course, the moment he touched the water, he muscled his way out of my grip and back into the depths.
After this, there was an exceptionally long dry spell. I spent many hours beating the water with nary a fish on the line. This dearth came down to many things, but I think none were more important than my not knowing the waters I fished or the fish that swam in them.
My break came when my buddy Tyler invited me to go steelheading with him. Tyler has been a true salmonid specialist for several years but was pretty green in chasing the migratory rainbows. We didn't have much luck with our efforts in the following weeks, exempting a few hook-ups and losses, but fishing with Tyler gave me the trout itch more generally. Additionally, and probably most importantly, he gave me what I was missing — an opportunity to fish with somebody who knew something about what they were doing.
The first trout I landed was a lovely brown, initially guessed at 16" (although Tyler quickly rounded to 17" when telling of it to a man just getting in as we were leaving). This fish was caught during a steelhead effort and was out of season, so while she was keeping size, she was spared from being table fare.
After the seal was broken, the trout came easier and easier. Landing a fish was no longer an outlying event. We mainly hit Type 4 Streams until the full season started, hoping for the rare 10" stocked rainbow. While no fish of that specification was landed during the early season, many brooks, browns, and bows were brought in.
My experience thus far culminated in the week following the trout opener. I pulled off to a small roadside park early in the morning with only a few hours to clock in on the water. I'd never been to this particular stream before, but my preliminary readings suggested this would be a good trout stream. Northern white cedar stretched over water coppery with tannins that ran over a rocky bottom. An unmanned truck in the lot concerned me that although I had gotten there early, this stranger may have already worked and spooked every hole. Regardless, I proceeded. There are always some stragglers.
I entered the water, feeling the cool pressure as my waders constricted around my legs. It only took a few casts. My first cast felt a bump, but my third was a take. I cranked my rod's tip, the ultralight doubling under the fish's weight.
At first, I worried that the fish was a log—or had wrapped itself up in one. Levering the fish around was a significant task, the reel pulling in mere inches at a time. After much fight, torquing my body left to right to compete with the trout's best efforts, I had her in the net. There was no question that this brown was a keeper, so I went straight to the bank, laying her belly down among a patch of marsh marigolds. I produced my priest (a small baton meant explicitly for the job) from my waders. I delivered three firm, swift blows between her eyes.
I was shaking. The fibers of my muscles thrummed like a taught clothesline in the wind. Now in hand and lifeless, I admired the beauty of this particular beast. Her flanks were covered in scales that shimmered like gold in the morning light. This hue was punctuated by characteristic spots of poppy red. The color of her back stands out saliently. Two shades of green met—one olivey and the other piney—which evoked the image of army fatigues. In form, she could only be described as 'stocky.' She was perhaps 17" in length but was robust, her well-developed musculature giving her a football shape. Taken as a whole, she was a beautiful fish.
I couldn't help but wonder about her past. Tens of thousands of browns had been stocked here over the years. Was she a stocker or among those who had come to these waters at birth? I suppose that detail doesn't matter all that much. With her size, I must assume that the tannins of the water had seeped in and stained her memories, going all the way back. How many near misses had she survived to find her way to my net? Of course, we must hope that our lives aren't defined by their ends. My catching of her did not nullify the stoic beauty of her life.
I returned to my van to put the fish on ice. I still had several hours before my afternoon 'appointment', and while it felt greedy to hope for more than one exceptional fish in a day after a year of skunkery, I did not take up the sport of fishing out of a dislike for fishing.
Perhaps expectably, I was kept in check. I worked the stream for an hour or so, but it felt like the universe was telling me, "You have enough", and I agreed. But it was nice to just be on the water, appreciating its riffles and subsurface log dams. It gave me a good space to meditate on all that had happened, all the build-up and the moment of actualization. With this beautiful brown, I felt content. I believed I had done right by the fish. From all of the possible ends a trout might meet, this was a relatively swift one, done with care and intentionality. When I cleaned the fish, I was careful to ensure that every piece not taken home was returned to the river's current, ensuring she fed not only me but also the water that fed her for so many years.
Contributing writer, Henry Wallison, is a graduate student of Ecosystem Science and Management in the School for Environment and Sustainability at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. All photographs are credited to him and have been used with expressed permission.