Yesterday I took the morning off from work and went fishing again. I have been out 6 times so far this year and have caught a grand total of just one trout. That is right, just one! And that was on my first day out this spring.

In many ways, trout fishing has always been for me about reading the water, watching rises, and the feeling of recognition when everything comes together. The real reward for me has always been attention, immersion, and participation in a world that feels older and quieter than ordinary life. The trout are almost proof that I was paying attention correctly, but they are not and never have been the central point.

Our modern, post-capitalist culture pressures people to turn every hobby into measurable success: more fish, better gear, bigger streams, social media photos, expertise, efficiency. While fly fishing has one foot in that world, it also has an older tradition — one that is almost literary — where the point is attentiveness and temporary escape from noise.

Like rereading books again and again, the pleasure in trout fishing is not for me about the suspense of “what happens.” It is really about re-entering a beloved atmosphere.

So I will keep trout fishing and keep rereading my favorite books and the poems that I carry around in my pocket, and I will keep watching regular season Minnesota Twins games even though I know that they will lose more than they will win. Because productivity, side-hustles, and efficiency really just get in the way.