Reflections: Fishing Now and Then

On his 70th birthday, a seasoned angler revisits decades of fishing entries—not to boast, but to trace the evolution of gear, philosophy, and soul.

October 09, 2025 By Mark J. Miller

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Question: What does an aged angler—one who has maintained for years a meticulous fishing log—do on his 70th birthday? Answer: He critiques a goodly chunk of those entries, searching for traces and meaningful changes in tactics and thoughts over time. Here are samples.

Especially in those launching years, I purchased and pilfered every tool and trinket that went with being an able angler. I was certainly the “maximalist.” Up close it appeared as though I was the chief mouthpiece for both Bass Pro Shops and Orvis. I looked the part.

As one year blended into the next, it dawned on me that much of what was drooping from my vest or glutting my tackle box was dispensable. Now, I align myself more with the quintessential “minimalist”—Ernest Hemingway. I’m still a backer of quality stuff, just not as compulsive about it. My box now includes only my favorites. And I’m whimsical on which lure or fly I select, relying more on my hunches over the counsel of fishing pundits.

What feels like long ago, the mantra then was “catch and release.” It was all the craze, especially among some fishing groups. It was deemed heresy to actually “catch and keep” your bounty, a plainly politically incorrect gesture. And I got lost in that widespread philosophy.

I have since modified my stance. What, after all, is so appalling with at times sharing a savory freshly caught dinner with a fishing buddy while sipping on some smooth bourbon over an open pit after a lengthy day on the water? I do it not as a rule but it sure does augment the overall enjoyment. Plus, keeping your quarry touches my deep genetic code that most likely descended from my great-great-grandfather, who fished to feed his family.

Another shift in my evolving viewpoint: thoughts of the great fish that slipped away had vexed me as the days moved along, keeping me up at night. Those painful images crowded my head during the day. I’m quite acquainted with heartache, anguish, grief, and the unending question: Do the fish gods have it in for me? Hell, I recall as if it just happened—that plump belly, that hulking mouth swimming contrary to my position. Fishing back then was not relaxing; I took it far too seriously. My Waterloo!

Things are different now. I have since schooled myself into brushing off misfortune and failure. I ceased believing that “fish gods” are spiteful. Missteps are a real part of fishing. If I can’t bear foul conditions, fishless days, and snapped lines, I’ll remain stale (It’s the worst trait). Those crushing emotions and clashing thoughts are now replaced with acceptance, patience, calmness, and a deeper regard for the ups and downs of fishing. The vital tally now is not how many fish I fight, nor the quantity of fish I land, but rather, how many days I find myself on the water. A fishless day is not a pointless day; after all, I’m doing what I enjoy. Plus, who knows? Tomorrow may be just one of those rare days. My deliverance.

I always treated fishing as a healthy way to forget about life for a while. And, to some extent, it still is. But these days I consider fishing to be more a healthy escape into all those serendipitous events that add a bit of tang to life: a scooping eagle, a herd of deer crossing a beaten path, a sipping trout, a bedding bass, a light rain ricocheting off the rocks, a meteor shower in the dead of night, the unruffled sound of stillness. And so it comes as no surprise that the more I fish these days, the less I actually fish. This inviting sport has made me a keen spectator of all that life has to offer outside those creatures who live underwater.

I’ve never been a fan of being just a fan. I needed to be out there. Long days on the water were everyday; quitting early was simply not my specialty. Today, the days are shorter; I get out and get back at very sensible times though angling is still my main magnet. It is a welcome change. In the end, it’s nearly always a useful goal to occasionally mull over one’s story.

Mark Miller is retired, living with his wife, Kitty, in Ruston, Louisiana. He hopes to take his granddaughter, Miller, 5, fishing very soon.