The Church of St. Bass

Fishing has always been there. Like the love of my family and the warmth of my bed at night – it has been a constant, something that has been there for me, faithfully. I have no memory of a life without fishing – no recollection of any summer where fishing was not a central part of the plan, part of the fabric.

My early winters were spent reading outdoor equipment catalogs and cutting out pictures of lures that I was sure held all the answers needed to outwit the smartest bass in the lake. Family car trips were opportunities to press my face on the rear passenger glass and contemplate each body of water we passed, wondering about its depth and purity, and the species of fish it might contain. At my insistence, my family often pulled patiently over to the side of the road so I could try a few casts into the water. It became a warm family joke when my father would pull next to a puddle after a rainstorm and suggest I give it a go. This passion found its sanctuary on the edges of Ulster Heights Lake.

The lake is small and private. It is found across a relatively desolate country road from the Catskills bungalow my grandparents purchased a few years after they came to the United States from Poland. The person I am on these waters, fishing rod in hand, is someone with whom I am absolutely comfortable. I have been able to carry important parts of him away from the water’s edge, but it never seems possible to bring it all home.

The lake is something less than fifty-six acres, fed eternally by several streams fueled by melting frost and mountain-valley rainfalls. It covers a forest-encircled plateau that is found at the end of a mountainous drive up from the downtrodden – but forever hopeful – town of Ellenville, New York. The lake is surrounded by mountains that go higher still.

At early morning, the water is typically placid and motionless, just as the fog lifts to reveal a stained-glass surface that provides the upside-down reflection of the green mountains meeting the heavenly, glowing sky in the distance. The temptation to skip a small stone across the water and disrupt this image is there – to watch the perfection ripple away and then soothingly return. I refrain for fear of alerting the fish to my presence. It is, ultimately, always about the fishing.

As long as I can remember, fishing on this lake has been lab, canvas, church, mirror, and mask. I have discovered many things on and around this lake’s waters through trial and error, application of scientific fact, and adherence to faith – mostly about fishing but not always. It has been a quiet country chapel within which I find peace and calm. It has been a place to find myself, and sometimes escape myself. My early morning pew is the worn wooden seat of my grandfather’s old rowboat. When sitting in it alone, mid-lake, oars up and by my side, it is monastic. The quiet can be warming emptiness, cradling me and permitting me to simply let go. Sometimes that same silence can be a deafening challenge to the thoughts inside my head, forcing me to deal with whatever is on my mind.

I never quite know how the lake will treat me as I walk down the wooded path towards it – a short pilgrimage through the still-chilly forest and early morning dew. I always feel benefitted in some way on the return trip, however. All fishing lakes are beautiful but this one is something else. Fishing is my passion. Fishing on this lake is something even more than that. For me, it is a spiritual realm. In the natural world, this lake has been a scientific journal come to life. One that commands understanding and curiosity. In bass fishing, science dictates the rhythm of the water, the patterns of the fish, and the interplay of bait and prey. Each cast I make is an experiment in this lake lab. Each strike a confirmation of the hypotheses I form as I sit in the boat, carefully choosing my lure, and then picking the spot where I try to precisely land my cast. Importantly, the empty casts are often more instructive. They beg questions that need to be answered. Am I hitting the right depth? Does this lure present in the most attractive manner possible? Are the bass even here, at this part of the lake? Perhaps the current environmental conditions of the water dictate switching from lures to live nightcrawlers. Any shift in approach requires a balance between giving my original plan a chance to prove itself and recognizing when something simple is not working.

Finding the answers provides the scientific education, and the process provides confirmation of faith. I cast my line to where experience, data, and know-how lead me to conclude the fish to be. Like a prayer, my call is sometimes answered, sometimes not. The fading light of evening, when the world softens, brings the bass closer to the surface. Adjustments must be made.

Spring brings behavioral changes – in the fish and fisherman. The water warms slowly, from 50 to 60 degrees, and the bass feel the change deep in their bones. It is time to spawn, and they make their way to the shallows. These are the days when the bass are bolder, less wary, and perhaps easier to catch. But they lay where the reeds whisper and the lily pads lay like a rug on the water’s top. These are tougher places to reach with my line, requiring more thought on where to position my boat and demanding the most accurate casting. There is always a way to reach them. It requires the application of knowledge and adherence to faith. I cast, then watch, line taut, subtle movements made, heart steady. When all is perfect, a five pounder is a hookset away.

Like many things in life, science is not enough. The fisherman, a parishioner in this outdoor church, must embrace the art and the unity of sports, nature, and self. The art emerges in the fluidity of effort and grace of movement. The cast line arcs gracefully in mid-air, shimmering and silvery. The line grows taught in the air, relaxes as it delicately lands on the water, then draws tight again as the fisherman makes the lure dance at the desired depth. There is beauty in the faith that fuels the fisherman’s patience, wonder in the anticipation, and confirmation in the moment when the water explodes with the raw power of a bass on the line. Even when no fish are brought into the boat, there is artistry and deep belief in the cast, and immense satisfaction in landing the lure in the exact spot intended – perhaps a small space between a semi-submerged log and lily pads that promises to be the hiding spot of a sizable bass waiting to ambush. At the intersection of my passion for fishing, this lake, and my family lies the essence of my faith. I find religion in it all. This sport, these waters, invoke an immediate reverence for the natural world, demanding a sacred bond between angler and environment.

This is my sanctuary, where life's most profound moments unfurl. In solitude, on these waters, surrounded by a cathedral of pines, I ponder the paths of my life. This place grants me an unencumbered space to envision my future, to chart my course with clarity. In my life beyond this lake, I am often indecisive, unsure, sometimes afraid to be alone, and from time to time looking backwards at decisions and choices I made. On this lake, I am at my most certain – confident in my abilities as a fisherman, in my desire to seek more, and in my grasp of what is important in life. I am comfortable and delighted in my solitude with my eyes forward, dreams intact, and my faith unquestioned. It all seems simple. I see a clear path and what needs to be done to achieve my goals. I know what I want to say to loved ones, and what I want to share with others in my world.

The activity of fishing, so pure, in turn clarifies my mind and I can take on thoughts one by one. When approached one at a time, these thoughts also seem so simple. Yet, the epiphanies I have on this lake, as clear in my mind as the shallow water beneath me, often dissolve when I leave. The challenges of real life come – tight exam schedules, the plotting and planning required to apply to medical school, and mistakes made in romantic and platonic relationships. Like skipping stones across the water, these create ripples and convolute the perfect images in my head and make what was so vivid on the lake harder to see and more difficult to remember. Bass fishing on a country lake appeals to me because it is a celebration of patience and introspection, not unlike a Sunday morning spent in the quiet reverence of my Catholic parish back home. In the rowboat, with the gentle lapping of water against the hull, the casting of my line becomes a rhythmic sacred ritual. It is my communion with nature, my devout bow at the altar of a life-altering sport that means so much to me. My approach to land a fish, and the related and unrelated thoughts that breeze through my mind, are secrets shared with the lake, which in turn holds them as tightly as any confessional. The echoing hymns of breezes through the reeds and trees that line the shore, and the sun filtering through the clouds above, confirm the joys of this earth and hint at the possibility of heaven beyond. Like the pilgrim that has arrived at the holiest of places, the angler searches for a certain meaning. For me, it is a deeper connection that moves beyond the mere physical and experiential, and touches something ineffable.

The importance of this place grows in the company of family and our shared beliefs and joys. It is the moments on the boat, floating on this water, with an uncle or my grandfather, that seem most worthy, most real, and most moving. These men have been the apostles, through deed and word showing me the joy of fishing, the heaven of the lake, and how it all intertwines with family. Our common love of fishing and this place reminding me that humanity must be something more than evolutionary luck and the passage of time. There is spiritual connection. We share the goal of landing a fish. We share the goal of spending time together. We share the goal of creating a memory. All of these objectives are met with a simple tug on the line and the landing of a monster bass. When we are together, it is unimportant on whose line the bass can be found. What is meaningful is the sudden excited chatter, the first look at the proud bass fighting against the fisherman, the release of the bass into the water to fight again, and the post-catch discussion – perhaps a moment of family scripture can be written. It is the sharing that is profound.

Fishing alone on this lake one lazy summer day, I caught the largest bass I ever landed – just shy of four pounds. Striving for the catch-and-release of a healthy bass, I gently took the beautiful fish from the water in my net and was lucky to find him hooked clean. The hook was easy to remove. I held him at the mouth, feeling the callous of bass thumb against the bone and cartilage of his lower jaw. The magnificently strong fish continued to fight with singular purpose to get back to the water. As he did so, a jolt of energy rushed up my arm and I felt directly connected to this wonderful creature. Unity. I tried to quickly take a picture of the bass with my phone. The lens of my phone, however, had been damaged when dropped weeks before. Resignedly, I gave the bass a quick fisherman’s kiss to show my gratitude and respect. I settled him in the water until I felt him springing to full life and gently released him to his future adventures. Fishless and pictureless on my return to the bungalow, I would rely on oral tradition. All I had was a story – one that I hoped others would believe. As the day unfolded, I told it over and over again. Hours of reliving it with anyone who would listen created an itch; one that could only be scratched by throwing a few more lines out before day’s end.

My Uncle Joe, who had heard the tale of the “great catch” several times that day, began to share the itch. I have been fishing with him my whole life. When I was very young, he was one of the few that would not avert his eyes from mine when I trolled our upstate grounds looking for someone, anyone, to take me fishing in the heat of the summer noon sun. Uncle Joe knew we were unlikely to catch anything but a sunburn. He took me every time I asked. As evening approached on this day, I asked him once again to join me. And again, and as always, the answer was “yes.” Grabbing the oars, we headed down the path that cuts from my grandfather’s property through the grassy, gently sloping land of a family friend, and takes us straight down to the rowboat. It is far less scenic then the typical route, but quicker when the sun is fading. We did not say much to one another as we raced against the day. My uncle got in the boat first with the oars and rods and I grabbed both sides of the boat near the back and pushed us off land’s edge and we glided out onto the still lake. Although some light from the west was still present, the sky was gray, and night was starting to push the sun aside into tomorrow.

The lake was empty except for our small boat. We barely moved the oars as the natural current took us towards the end of the lake where a small dam allows overflow to spill with a constant hiss into a stream that makes its way down the mountain to Ellenville. I dipped my hand into the water and it felt warm compared to the cooling air. This cooling air meeting the still-warm summer water began to create a slight mist. The forest around us grew dark and cool, the quiet broken every few seconds by the sometimes startling sounds of nature – from one direction and then another. Over the horizon, a ray of light suddenly fought against the creeping night, peering over the mountain tops and under the clouds, Ross 8 and shining golden hues along the shore’s edge. The greens of the forest took on seemingly impossible, ethereal hues.

I felt a sudden, strong urge to cast my line toward the drainage square that forms the top of the dam. The bubblegum pink Texas-rigged Super Fluke cut through the air and in the instant it broke the water’s surface something hit. A jolt ran through me. Like the flamethrowing pitcher that has no sooner released his pitch when he is staring at a line drive heading towards his head, everything that followed was pure reflex. I gave the line a quick pull and somehow could feel the hook setting into the mouth of the bass through the line. The fish bolted downward in the water, trying to go deeper. I could feel the laws of nature, and the miracle of his strength beyond his body size, as the fish pulled the rod in my hands. Science, art, obsession, and fate came together creating in my soul a thrilling chain reaction. The bass headed to the surface and leaped out of the water, permitting a faint glimpse of his size. The line momentarily relaxed, the rod in my hand weightless. The bass crashed back into the water, a silvery plume erupting from the surface. The line snapped taught and the weight of the fish, now perceptible through my line, made my heart race. Not a single concern, thought, or care existed in my mind in this moment, except one – “do not lose this fish.” I did not. I wrangled the fish closer to the boat and into my net. He continued to fight as I brought him into the boat. I then noticed that Uncle Joe had grabbed my phone and was trying to take some video. “Shane, I can’t see anything. Your phone… It’s all messed up!” The dark, shadowy, jittery, grainy, and visually indecipherable video exists to this day. Like the nominal fragments of an ancient religious text discovered in Middle Eastern sands, the proof of the fish that weighed six pounds, ten ounces is truly evident only to those that believe. To this day, the biggest bass I’ve ever caught.

I have tried deep sea fishing in the ocean and fly fishing on small streams. It has been rewarding every time. There are many places in my plans and dreams where I will cast my line in the years to come, from salmon fishing in Alaska to flyfishing for trout in the Western United States. Alone or with others, fishing is always joyful, always challenging, and always rewarding.

Trying new places and fishing with different people brings me closer to the sport. The sense of communion and shared passion is meaningful and, as a catch-and-release fisherman, what I carry way with me after a day of fishing. Yet the more passionate I get for the sport, the more I yearn to forever return to The Church of St. Bass. The sky infinitely stretching like a fresco of painted blues and whites, is the ceiling, the lake the soul, and the family the bedrock of this church, of this place. It all eternally washes over me, as the sounds of the surrounding forest evolve into quiet yet soul-affirming music that will play until the end of time.

The whir of the line cast and the lure plunking gently into the water echoes a very particular way at this lake, and signals my never-ending search. A fish may or may not end up on my line. The outcome does not measure success, and does not dictate my joy. It is never more true than in these moments that the journey is as important as the destination. Whether or not I land a fish, I am doing it right. This is the place that provides my most rewarding affirmation – when I can look off the side of the boat, into the mirror calm water, and see a person who is leading a good life.

The pope of this place is my dziadziu (grandfather). He speaks very little yet commands respect from all. He found this place for the family and worked several jobs to buy the small parcel of land and the tiny bungalow that sits in the middle of it. Other family members, uncles and aunts, followed him and purchased adjacent lots over time. For three generations now, we have all grown up here during our summers together. Skills, beliefs, and passions passed down from person to person. It all started with him. He is the one who first took me to this lake.

He was the first to show me the best spots to cast off the shores of this lake. I copied his casts to hit hard to reach spots. His reverence for this place was evident and, for me, evangelical. His belief instantly became mine. I was five. I am twenty-three now, and as I cast, he appears, rustling through the branches, clearing them away to get to where I stand. He moves slowly and no longer casts his own line. I am lucky he is still here, sharing the spot with me.

My grandfather is eighty-five. I look at the lake unchanged since the first time he took me down to the water. And I think about the patience and love he provided when introducing me to fishing. And look at him now, much older. I am too. And I get sad, thinking of the time he will not be standing by my side at this very spot and how the lake will still be here, still the same – but not quite. I hope to stand next to my grandchildren on this very spot one day and hope they will find their own meaning in this sport and this lake.