There are rules in fundraising, part 3

Rule #3

 Neither you nor I get to make the rules

        An extremely frustrating fact is neither you nor I get to make the rules.  They just exist! Hard Knocks U is the most common school for learning them.  Indiana University is the only place I’m aware of that offers a formal accredited degree in Philanthropy. 

          “So,” you might ask, “If the rules aren’t written down, and few people can tell me what they are, how do I know they exist?”  If the words, “Trust me” don’t satisfy you, you may want to keep reading!

          As a person committed to learning the fine art of fly fishing for trout, I’m always in search of mountains with cold-flowing streams. You need mountains in order to have the melting snow that runs off into the valleys where streams are born.  Fishermen call these water-flow beginnings head-waters.  Just as one has to have mountains, because they’re necessary for trout, it’s necessary to know the rules to be an effective fundraiser.  Now, there’s always excitement in finding a new place to throw in a line.  Finding a new fundraising rule can, in many ways, produce a similar sense of discovery. 

          I wish I could create mountains!  I truly do!  Living here in Illinois, we have what I would consider a serious shortage of them.  If you were to look on-line for Trout Fishing in Illinois, as I have, you’d see that it says, “See Wisconsin!”  I’m not kidding here, it really says that!  But, I don’t get to create the mountains; that’s been left to a higher authority than me.  So, I have to go in search of them.  It’s much the same with the rules of fundraising.  Neither you nor I get to make them, they just exist. 

          This past summer I went in search of the so-called mountains of Wisconsin.  Having spent many of my growing-up years in the Pacific Northwest, I grew up with ranges of magnificent peaks all around me, and a few glistening volcanoes as well.  What I found in Wisconsin resembled hills more than mountains, but they still left me breathless… 

The Bohemian River, On My Own

         Last night I said goodbye to John Matenaer, my fishing guide.  For the last three days, we’ve been fly fishing in what’s called the Driftless Area of Southwestern Wisconsin.  It’s called this because when the massive glaciers flattened out the Great Lakes area of the Midwestern United States, it didn’t drift into this place.  As a result the high hills, low valleys and cold spring creeks have all been wonderfully preserved.

          I’m particularly excited today because I’m getting to fish totally on my own.  John’s patient teaching over the last three days has prepared me for this solo effort.  And I know where I’m going!  Our third day together, John took me to a place called The Bohemian Valley.  It’s a narrow scratch in the surface of the earth where Amish farms abound and cattle graze.  And as I’ve now learned, where cattle graze, the weeds lining the river are mostly gone.

          As a novice fly fisherman, weeds can be a daunting enemy.  Frustration and swearing abound when I’m fishing in amongst them. They reach out and grab my back cast more times than not.  The small river becomes just a narrow corridor with weedy hands reaching out to grab every movement of my fly line.  Tangles and frustration usurp the peace and serenity associated with the sport.

          So today, it’s the Bohemian for me!  The cows have eaten most of those weedy little irritants and the water is very accessible.  I’m so excited, as I pull up and park in the gravel at the side of the road, I can feel myself shaking with anticipation.  I’m in a hurry to get on the water and catch all the trout I missed yesterday.  And…I’m doing it on my own!

          After I suit up in my waders, boots and vest I string up my rod, tie on a black ant and head toward the fence.  There’s a wooden ladder built into the fence just large enough to let a person over into the cow pasture.  The bottom rung is loose, as John had commented the day before, so I step on it lightly and then onto the soft earth of the pasture.

            As soon as I’m over the fence I begin my stealth mode, since the river is just a few feet away.  It’s sunny and warm, making any movements detectable to the skittish brown trout that lay in the pools.  I’m walking hunched over, making sure my shadow doesn’t fall upon the river.  I carefully keep my rod tip from hanging over the water so I don’t unintentionally announce my arrival.

          Ahhh, John has taught me well! 

          Stopping just short of the first pool, I take a deep breath, which is increasingly difficult as I’m almost panting with the anticipation of catching my first fish of the day.  I reach down to my reel and unhook the loop of line wrapped around it.  Reaching up to the eye on the rod, I carefully remove my little speck of a black ant.  It is a dry fly, tied with a white tuft of something on the top to make it easier to see when it’s drifting downstream.

          Sidling up to the water, I pull some fly line out of my reel in preparation for my first cast.  I’m truly shaking now with excitement.  Lifting the rod tip, I begin to false cast in order to shake some line out so there will be enough to lay it softly down upon the pool.  It’s time; I cast to the spot, just short of the pool where I’ll begin the drift.  But there’s no line!  No drift!

       I feel the awful tug of the dreaded weeds behind me.

       I’m shocked!  There aren’t any weeds here.  That’s why I chose this spot.  Looking back over my shoulder, I see one lonely uneaten weed standing there defiantly.  It has grabbed my fly.  I sigh, lower my head and begin to think, “Oh no, not another day of this.”

       Turning toward the weed, I slide my hand down the line until I can follow it back, away from the river, feeling for the fly.  It’s not only snagged, but it’s tangled into a total mess.  Discouragement engulfs me.  It’ll be several minutes of sorting through entangled line before I can re-approach the water now.  Shaking my head, I’m thinking about the past three days and I hear myself saying out loud, “John would be dying with laughter if he saw this.”

       It’s a bad tangled mess. 

       I take a deep breathe and recite to myself the mantra of all fly fishermen, “Tangles are just part of the process.”  The trick now is to calm myself down; the fish will still be there waiting.  For now I just need to concentrate on the tedium of releasing my fly from the spaghetti-like mass of fishing line.

       There may be many ways to approach this, but only one real solution.  I have to get the fly back to its intended place of lying freely at the end of my 5X fishing line.  Sliding my amber prescription sunglasses down my nose, I look over the top of them to have more direct sunlight so I can see the frustrating mess.  Since I am now an expert tangler, I’m sizing up this mess to determine the extent of the problem.  It’s pretty bad.  There are knots, loops and no instructions!  So I have at it.  After about 10 minutes of working away on this Rubic’s Cube of fishing line, I begin to feel the heat of the sun on my shoulders.   This is when I begin to think seriously about cutting the line, retying the fly, resetting the strike indicator, adding a new piece of lead and starting over.  But, I’m also reminding myself that this is a part of the sport, and learning how to get out of a mess that I alone have created, is a discipline that I need to master.  So I fight back the panic of taking the easy way out, and keep feeding the fly through yet another tight loop of line.   Somewhere, about this time, I begin thinking about the clock.  I still have to drive the 5 hours home tonight, and time is being wasted on discipline.  I keep stuffing the thought down into my now frail psyche, and keep holding the tangle up so I can see it better.  Am I making it worse? Or am I making progress?  There’s a point at which all fishermen have to ask these two key questions.  I push on through this latest wave of temptation to cut the line, and feed the fly through yet one more loop.

       It’s now been 20 minutes and I’m suppressing the urge to scream.  I think to myself, “The hills are alive with the sound of screaming.” Back to the mess.  It’s actually starting to take a predictable form.  If  I feed this piece of line through that opening, it might allow me to move the fly one step closer to freedom.  It works!  I can see the end now.  A few more twists of line and I finally have it.  About this time, the thought strikes me that my feet are turning numb from standing in one place.  It’s been a full 20 minutes, and I haven’t even touched the water.

       At this point in my 3 plus years of fly fishing, I’m beginning to develop a kind of philosophy about entanglements.  Successful perseverance in untangling a fouled line is almost as exciting as catching a fine brown trout!  It’s a little crazy I know, but this is what happens to my mind when I’m out in the sun this long, and trying to make the most out of my mistakes.

       Okay, so everything is finally where it needs to be and I begin thinking about re-approaching the river.  I give the weed one final look of disdain, reach over and snap the sucker off.  There! Now, I’m ready!

       Creeping closer to the river, I begin looking for the trough or pool most likely to be holding a nice, fat, brown trout.  I reach up and adjust the strike indicator (a little half inch plastic floating ball).  I pull it down toward the fly about 6 inches, as though I know what I’m doing.  It’s time.  Cast, drift, nothing…cast, drift, nothing.  Another fishing mantra pops to the surface of my consciousness, “Three casts; three steps.”  I make one more cast and decide to move on.

       Walking up and away from the water, I walk about a half block before I spot a hole that I had fished, with John, the day before.  Weeds are low and reaching out over the river, leaving about a 2-foot opening in the center.  All of a sudden I see movement in the water!  A trout rises to the surface, eats and disappears.  He leaves his rising ring on the surface.  My heart soars!  He’s in there and he’s feeding!  It’s black ant time!

       Now I know I have to lay the line down very gently over the ring.  Again, there’s only about 2 feet of open water with weeds to each side.  I have to nail it perfectly or risk tangling again and spooking the fish.

       I take a step down from the bank and into the slow moving water.  This is a defensive tactic so my back cast won’t find yet another errant weed.  I make one false cast to let out some line, and then whip the tip of my rod forward toward a second trout rise.  The line moves silently forward, laying perfectly… into the weeds on the left.  “Crap!”  I tug the line very gently, hoping for an easy solution to my predicament.  No good.

       There’s only one way out, and I know what I have to do so I lay the rod down on the left bank.  Moving slowly, I creep, hunched over, up the slope and up onto the flat of the pasture.   I’d seen John make this move many times over the past three days, and it has saved the opportunity.  About 15 steps through the pasture, I turn toward the water and slip down onto my creaking knees.  I ease my body forward until my hands touch the ground, and I begin to crawl toward the weeds that are holding my god-forsaken black ant.  The ground is sloping down now as I crawl forward using my elbows.  I’m moving very slowly through the dirt, the footprints of cattle and their favorite contribution to society, cow patties.  Thankfully, they are old and white.  “Now, this is what I call fly fishing,” I hear myself whisper.  The bank begins to get steeper as it nears the water.  My butt is sticking up in the air and I’m moving forward ever-so-slowly.  Any movement of the weeds along the bank, and the fish will be gone.

       I’m in total focus mode now.  I don’t care how stupid I look to passing cars or Amish wagons.  I don’t care that I’m butt-end up crawling through cow crap.  All I want is to retrieve my fly without moving the weeds.  I stop.  Reaching forward as far as my arms allow, I feel for the fishing line and locate it.  Sliding my right hand up along the line, with my left hand I carefully bend some of the weeds, just a tiny bit, so I can continue running my right hand up to where the black ant is lodged.  Contact!  I wrap my fingers around the fly and snap off the weed leaf that’s holding it.  Ah!  The sweet moment of success is about to be mine!

       Now, all I have to do is to crawl backwards up the sloping bank, through the cow patties, to a point where it’s safe to rise back up to my knees and then stand.  Sounds easy enough, but crawling backwards uphill is much more challenging than downhill.  It takes concentration and a fair amount of faith that all of the cow patties are white.

       I’m now back on top, lying face down in the pasture.  I check to make sure I haven’t dropped the black ant in all the maneuvering.  It’s still there, in my right hand.  I pull my knees up under me and flounder to my feet.  Still walking hunched over, I carefully pull the fishing line along with me until it clears the weeds hanging out over the water.  Now, I’m back to the fishing rod lying on the bank.  It’s only been 15 minutes, but it feels like an hour.

       “Okay,” I say, “Let’s see if I spooked him.”  Stepping back into the water, I see the most wonderful sight I could hope for, another trout rise, yes! It’s still in between the overhanging weeds.  Now, it’s at this point that fisherman earn the mantle they wear proudly, “A little bit crazy.”  I square myself up, check my line length and cast into the great unknown.

         Boom!  The brown trout takes the black ant!  My little friend has done his work, now I must do mine.  I pull sharply down on the fly line.  He’s hooked!  And it’s a beauty!  I let him fight a little, and allow him to take as much line as he wants to.  I don’t want to break him off now.  He turns toward me and I begin to reel like a madman.  As he comes closer, I’m getting even more excited.  He’s at least 15 inches long; big for this part of the world.  I wrestle him to the point where his open mouth is just above the waterline, right at my feet.  With my left hand I reach back and grab my fishing net that’s hanging limply on the back of my fishing vest, keeping my eyes on the trout the whole time.  I can’t lose him now!

       Joy engulfs my soul!  He’s safely in the net, and I’m walking up out of the water to gaze at my prize and take a picture before I release him.  I’m laughing and giggling, which leads to whooping and shouting.  Now this is fly fishing!

        This is fundraising, too!  As you know, it involves a great deal of preparation, entanglements, an extreme amount of patience and discipline.  If I could make a weedless world I’d do it, at least during fishing season, but like the Rules of fundraising, I don’t have a vote.   But the joy of accomplishing our mission is worth all the weeds.