Going camera-less

Full disclosure: My hard drive contains a total of 88 fishing photos taken on a Belize bonefishing trip, on saltwater excursions in the South-East and on trout excursions in the North-East. Eight or ten of those photos were snapped by me. More on this later.

&&&

There is a unique tranquility in stepping away from the constant need to document life, particularly when it comes to nature’s more serene moments. I went on a few fly fishing excursions over the summer, where I made a deliberate decision: no cameras, no smartphones, no distractions. My sole focus was on the act of fly fishing itself and immersing myself in the raw beauty of the surroundings. This simple but profound choice not only allows but practically demands that you connect with the world in a deeper way, and I can tell you that there is something very satisfying… almost rebellious…  about choosing to leave behind the modern world's constant call to document everything.

The first thing I notice when I arrive at a river is the air— often crisp and cool, sometimes damp, sometimes it’s a slight breeze rustling through surrounding trees. Without the burden of a camera, I can simply breathe it in, savoring the freshness that only early morning in nature can provide. The sights and sounds around me are no longer filtered through the lens of a camera or the annoying buzz or ‘ding’ of a smartphone letting me know that I have a new “urgent” message. The gentle rush of water over rocks, the faint chirping of birds in the distance, or the occasional cacophony of scurrying unseen creatures — all of these fill my senses. Every sound becomes part of the experience, enriching the moment with a sense of peace that cannot be captured on film.

I turn my attention to the task at hand: casting my line. Each cast is a deliberate, focused and deceptively intense dance between patience and precision. The feel of the fly rod in my hands, the nearly inaudible splash of the fly hitting the river’s surface, the tug of the line as it skims across the water are all tangible sensations that require full concentration. With each cast, I let go of distractions, tuning into the rhythm of the water and the perceived (or presumed) movement of the fish beneath the surface.

The excitement of a catch, the fluid motion of reeling in the line, even the mayhem that occurs when you’ve completely messed up by leaving out too much fly line - and then comically struggle to get everything back in control after a vigorous take - all feel more intense without the temptation to pause and take a picture. These are moments to experience in their totality, not to preserve.

When I leave the rivers, I know how much more profound my experience has been. Without the desire to document every moment, I immersed myself fully in the present. The day’s highlights are etched in my memory, far more deeply than any image can ever convey. Only a liar will tell you that they remember every memory that was etched in their memory. I’ve probably forgotten half of my fishing highlights from years past, maybe more, but the really memorable highlights remain just that: memorable. Fly fishing, in its purest form, is a meditative practice, one that I will carry with me, not as a series of photos, but as a set of vivid, sensory memories.

Going camera-less will give you a sense of peace; some of life’s most meaningful moments cannot be captured in a photograph - they are best when felt and experienced in the moment.

&&&

Is it your kid’s first ever fishing day? Are you about to board a plane for an exotic location to target GTs? Bring a camera for goodness’ sake. Those are outings that beg to be documented. And while you’re at it, go the extra step and print some of those photos when  you return. Then frame them - rather than letting them sit, mostly ignored, on your hard drive.

Cameras on the water aren’t a sin. But they will to some degree diminish your fishing experience if you’ve developed the need to bring one along on each and every outing.