One of the smartest things I've ever done — maybe the smartest thing — is to teach my boys how to fly fish. It is a way for us to bond together, to be certain, but there is much more to it. I think of it as my gift to them; a gift that will help them throughout their lives maintain perspective and find balance.

It didn't start that way for me, and I'm sure it didn't for the boys, either. My youngest, Lee, is hooked on fly fishing for the simple, pure joy of hooking, fighting, landing and releasing a fish, always with a kiss.

My older boy, Joe Jr., felt that same way when he was younger, but now I've noticed subtle changes. Whenever we fish the Lower Owens River near Bishop, he has developed a ritual of getting out of the car and smelling the air. Then, without fail, he will turn to me and say, "Dad, I love that smell.''

The biggest change I've noticed, though, is that he has become a much more patient fisherman. If the fish aren't biting, Lee's good for about an hour at the most. Joe Jr.'s patience is the result of something else, something I had hoped he would come to appreciate. It's something I hope Lee will come to appreciate as he gets older.

I have read hundreds of books, essays and articles about fly fishing that make it sound like it's a spiritual experience. It's as if the authors believe the fly rod is a magic wand and the artificial fly casts some sort of mythical spell over the fish, usually big trout. That's a bit much for me.

I love rivers, but they don't become enchanting metaphors for my life. I enjoy fighting a spirited fish, but the struggle doesn't represent a greater meaning of reaching the unattainable. I don't mind getting skunked, and it certainly doesn't signify a deeper understanding of life's vagaries. Most often, it represents the plain truth that I fished badly.

I've been fly fishing for 50 years, which doesn't say anything about my skills, only my persistence. What has drawn me to the sport and held me for so long has been the simple pleasure of being totally lost in the moment, and being in that moment for hours.

It is like the cleansing of my brain.

When I'm in that moment, I'm not plagued by deep thoughts, worries, concerns about work or family or anything remotely related to the rest of the world. My deepest thought is whether I have on the right fly. My biggest concern is whether I can make the right cast to the fish. My muscles relax, my blood pressure drops and I'm awash in utter contentment.

At the end of a day of fishing, I feel as if I just awoke from a peaceful, uninterrupted night's sleep. Problems that seemed big the day before don't seem so big. Squabbling children, demanding wife, nagging friends aren't even a blip on my radar. Every tension in my life has been loosened and I am happy.

That is the gift I want to pass on to my boys. That is what causes my heart to swell as I watch Joe Jr. grow into a fine fisherman because I know he gets it. Unlike Lee, he is a different boy when he fishes. He has long since broken from me and developed his own style. He fishes in a world of his own and is as happy as I ever see him.

Lee has a ways to go, just as his older brother did. In time, he will break from my teachings and find his own style, just as his older brother did. And, in time, he will come to cherish the gift I have given him, discovering the true reward is not in the catching, just as his older brother did.

I am not so snobbish, although it is a trait often associated with fly fishermen, to think that fly fishing is the only way to reach such a state of contentment. Each of us has interests, hobbies, passions that absorb us and take us to a place of refuge. It may be that my boys, as they grow older, will find other interests that delight them more. Even if that happens, I'm sure they'll come back to fly fishing.

After all, it's a gift.

— Joe R. Howry is editor of The Star. He can be reached by phone at 437-0200 or by e-mail at jhowry@VenturaCountyStar.com.