The true joy lies in the instant of encountering a single fish that has carried on its fragile lineage for generations within those rugged valleys—and in savoring that moment together with the surrounding landscape.

Of course, eating the fish one catches, taking pleasure in taste and appetite, can also be rewarding on occasion.
Yet because the productivity of those upper streams is delicate and limited, such indulgence should always be tempered with restraint.

Naturally, the thrill and challenge of the process leading up to a catch are also part of the fascination.
This kind of fishing begins long before one reaches the river—by gathering specialized tools and gear, and by crafting one’s own flies and tackle.
Then in the field, the question becomes whether one can cast the fly precisely to the fish, entice it to bite, and, after a delicate struggle, bring it safely to hand.
There are countless elements that test one’s skill.
Desire—wanting to catch a bigger fish, or more of them—surely acts as a powerful motivator.
The sense of omnipotence that comes from mastering a river or a spot that once defeated you—though it’s just a small fish you’ve caught—can feel overwhelming.
It is less the fish you have conquered than the river, the valley, and even the mountain itself; that illusion draws anglers endlessly back to this pursuit.

During the off-season, when fishing is forbidden, we recall the past months, dream of unseen fish and new rivers, pore over maps, gather information, and hone our technique.
Even as I write this, I find myself reflecting on various tangled events and thoughts from the past season.
Perhaps I will share them another time.