A Hard Lesson Learned from 40 Years of Fishing

By the time you’ve spent four decades chasing fish, you start to recognize the things that mattered — and the things that slipped through your fingers. I’m not talking about the ones that got away. I’m talking about the days you didn’t even show up.

This isn’t a story about tackle or technique. It’s about timing. About regret. And about learning—maybe a little too late—that the best fishing isn’t always about what’s in your tackle box, but about when you’re willing to drop everything and go.

The Drive-By Regret

There’s a stretch of river I know like the back of my hand. She’s moody and unpredictable, but when the conditions line up — depth, clear water, soft light, and just the right chill in the air — she lights up like Christmas. Every angler has a place like that. And I’ve driven over it more times than I care to admit, glancing down at glass-clear pools. I should be wading, telling myself: “Next time.”

But “next time” doesn’t always come. It's raining. The water clouds up. Schedules shift. Life piles on. And just like that, the window is gone. All that’s left is a gnawing feeling in your gut and a rod that never left the truck.

When Conditions Count More Than Commitment

Here’s something fishing taught me that work never did: nature doesn’t reschedule. A warm rain, a drop in pressure, a cold front, or a moon phase — it can all mean the difference between a banner day and a wasted one. Water clarity is fragile. Fish behavior is fleeting. And if you’re not there when the stars align, you don’t get a second shot.

Fish don’t wait. Why should you?

The Consequences of Waiting

The biggest fish I’ve missed were the ones I never cast to. Not because they spooked, or the line snapped, but because I was busy. Too busy. Meetings. Errands. Obligations. Things that felt important at the time — and some were — but not all.

Some days, I’ve watched the weather turn while my boots sat dry in the garage. I’ve seen the bite reports from buddies who made the trip while I stayed home “just in case.” I’ve missed more than trout. I’ve missed time. Solitude. Perspective. That mental reset you only get when it’s just you and the water.:

Be Ready to Fish on the Fly

After missing enough perfect days to count as failure, I don’t overthink it anymore. I just go.

But if you’re not there yet—and I hope you don’t have to reach the fish-or-die mindset I’ve adopted—here’s what I recommend.

Keep your gear in the truck—rod, reel, a small tackle box, and a spare set of clothes. Scout water on lunch breaks. Watch the sky the way you used to watch the clock. I’ve pulled off the highway more than once just to cast into a fishy-looking run too good to pass up.

The key? Be ready. Pack like you might fish today. Keep your gear close and your excuses far. Most importantly: learn to say no. Not every obligation deserves your “yes.” But when the river’s right—and your gut says now—listen.

Because that fish.
That moment.
That clear water—it won’t wait.

What I’d Tell My Younger Self

Younger me thought there’d always be another chance. More time. Another perfect day. But now I know better.

I’d tell him: Fish now. Fish often. Don’t wait. Don’t put it off. Take the shot when it’s there—not when it’s convenient.

I’d tell him: Be ready. Keep a rod behind the seat and boots in the back. Be the guy who’s always one decision away from the water.

And I’d tell him: Joy matters. Fishing isn’t just about filling a stringer. It’s about filling your soul.

The Final Cast

If there’s a takeaway from 40 years on the water, it’s this: the best days don’t announce themselves. You have to notice them. And then you have to act.

So next time you see the river sitting just right, don’t say, “I’ll go tomorrow.” Go today. Fish while the water’s clear, the sky’s soft, and your body’s able.

Because the biggest regret in fishing isn’t the one that broke off. It’s the one you never made time for.