The joy of rituals

A version of this originally appeared at midwestliving.com.

My friend Dean plopped a steak onto my plate. I moved to the buffet prepared by Steve and shoveled on mashed potatoes, asparagus and trout, caught by the assembled 10 men over the previous two days. I found a seat at a picnic table away from the campfire, and tucked into the feast, which also included a biscuit soaked in honey from Nate’s hives.

This was the Saturday night dinner at our annual fishing trip to Montauk State Park in south-central Missouri, the can’t-miss event on a weekend that I sometimes think should be called an eating trip during which we fish if we get around to it in the scant minutes between meals. The Saturday ritual has grown and morphed over the years—this meal for the first time Steve used Sterno to keep the food in serving trays warm—but it has never been skipped.

Nor will it be. Indeed, rituals like that make trips special. You tell and retell the same stories even though you’ve heard them a thousand times, and you keep re-doing the rituals in hopes of creating another story worth telling. The rituals serve as a rite of passage for newbies and provide continuity for veterans, which is not to be overlooked considering our lack of continuity in the generation or so.

We live, it seems, in a constant state of flux, and we lose these traditions at our peril. I understand this far more now than I ever have in part because I have recognized the value of rituals in my life and other’s lives.

I see it from my front porch. There’s a plug out there, so I bring my coffeemaker outside, brew a pot, and just sit there, watching the world wake up. Then I read. No phone, no internet, just me, a book, and mourning doves.

As with any good ritual, I’m there at roughly the same time every day. I know when it hits 6:45 because my down-the-street neighbor with the gray Subaru drives by. In the school year, I know when it’s 6:54 because my neighboring teenagers bound out of their houses to catch the bus, which follows at 6:55.

I lead a chaotic life in a chaotic industry. No two days are ever the same. It is thrilling when it’s going good, stressful when it’s not, and always exhausting. The noise of never-ending flux can be deafening. My morning ritual stills that cacophony and brings a sense of normalcy that is absent from most of the rest of my life.

I miss that morning routine when I travel. I do my best to recreate them, but it never works out like I want it to.

Day-to-day rituals are as important as fishing rituals. Both give context to the events. Each member of our fishing crew has his own rituals. Steve and Dean cook the Saturday feast. Nate of the honey disappears for mid-day naps. Another Nate uses every camping gadget you can think of, and more you can’t. His twin Aaron fits a full kitchen into a trailer the size of a duffel bag.

My ritual is watching people not fish.

On my first Montauk trip, I took a walk by the Current River and noticed people standing hip deep in it, not fishing, because it was not yet the official start time of 7 a.m. Yes, they waited for the siren that opens the fishing to give them permission to cast. That scene struck me as delightfully odd and also telling about the passion of the thousands of Montauk faithful who flock there in pursuit of rainbow trout.

The first time I watched people not fish, a person caught a trout before the siren was done ringing. I liked the ritual because it gave me an excuse to make a cup of coffee and walk from my tent to the lodge to buy my required pass for the day. But eventually I bored of watching people not fish and decided to join them.

With help from howling coyotes, I rose before the sun and drove to the headwaters of the Current River. Five deer scampered across the gravel road. Minutes later I inched into the gently flowing river running clear against and around my legs. My waders protected my lower body from the cold water, and a hat, multiple layers and gloves protected the rest of me from the frigid wind.

As I stood there not fishing, I immediately understood the allure of being in the river with nothing to do, which is to say I understood the allure of having nothing to do and this happened to be a beautiful place for it. It was like my morning porch ritual only way, way better. Leafless branches blown by the wind scratched the sky like God’s EKG. Mist rose off the river and disappeared faster than Saturday’s dinner. The gurgling river tickled my ears like a radio set to permanent static.

The siren halted my reverie and created another one. I completed two casts before it was done. Both came back fishless, but who cares? A new ritual was born.