Skip to main content

Unexpected Encounter

In this episode, Unexpected Encounter . . .

Life presents peculiar twists that make us ponder the universe’s mysteries. Last week, I found an unexpected bookAnother Lousy Day in Paradise, A 1996 fly fishing journal by the inspiring humorist and author John Gierach. It may seem strange for a random book selection to inspire such reflection but stay with me.

I’ve always been a bookworm, often buying more than I can read—ask my wife. This book had been gathering dust on my shelf for over 28 years. As I delved into Gierach’s witty and insightful writing, I was captivated by his unique perspective on life, fly fishing, and the outdoors.

In 1992, while living in Manhattan, I stumbled into a shop on 5th Avenue called The Urban Angler. I purchased my first fly rod, an Orvis eight-and-a-half foot, three-ounce, five-weight beauty! I remember thinking Dad would say, “Why the hell would you buy a fishing rod in New York City?”

“Because I want to learn to Flyfish.”

“In New York City?”

No! . . . I’ve been reading about the Catskills Mountains!” Known as the “birthplace of American fly fishing,” these stunning mountains are home to some of the best trout streams in the state, offering breathtaking views at every turn. And the best part? They’re only a short train ride away from Manhattan!

Before I set off, though, I need to brush up on my casting skills, learn how to read the waters, and refine my technique for casting dry flies. I’d grown up using a spinning reel, a “bait fisherman”–a bad word–for Fly fishermen. After getting my new gear, I strapped it to my bicycle rode to Central Park on weekends, and learned to cast on the lake.

Returning to the book, my curiosity led me to “Google”–John Gierach. Was he still writing? I was surprised to find out that he had passed away just one month earlier, on October 3, 2024. The timing of my rediscovery of his work felt almost uncanny. It was as if the universe had conspired to bring this forgotten book to my attention when it was meant to be read.

This experience has left me pondering the nature of chance and coincidence. Was it mere luck that I picked up this particular book? Or was there something deeper at play? Perhaps it was a gentle nudge from the universe–time to retire and go fishing–or a reminder to cherish the present moment and appreciate the unexpected connections that enrich our lives.

Anyway, I’m grateful for this serendipitous encounter as I re-explore Gierach’s writings. It has reminded me of a talented writer and provided a valuable lesson about the power of chance and the importance of staying open to life’s surprises.

Also, it's about time I dug out that fly rod and returned to something I loved all those years ago–don’t you think?

I'm Patrick Ball; thanks for listening. I'll see you in the next episode.

Comments

Most Popular of All Time

Confidently Wrong: The Art of the AI Tall Tale

In this episode, A chat with Adamas the Chef on hidden recipes causing digital hallucinations. Pull up a chair and pour yourself a fresh cup of coffee—and please, for your own sake, taste it first. We need to have a quiet chat about why your computer sometimes decides to reinvent reality with the confidence of a five-star chef who has clearly lost his mind. In the world of technology, we call it a  hallucination . It sounds pretty dramatic, doesn’t it? As if the computer decided to ignore your instructions altogether in favor of a vivid, technicolor imagination that simply hasn’t met reality yet. But in truth, an AI hallucination isn’t a breakdown; it’s just a very confident, very polite mistake. Think of it like our friend Adamas , the Chef. Adamas is a master of the kitchen, but he is also a bit of a romantic who refuses to say “I don’t know.” When you ask him for a classic recipe he hasn’t made in years, he doesn’t stop to consult a cookbook—that’s far too pedestrian. Instead, ...

Ode To Gemology

For over 80 years, students of gemology have struggled with spectrums, bewildered by birefringence, and simply plagued by pleochroism. The following sonnet is guaranteed to bring a smile to your face, a glow to your heart, and a simple reminder that students of life and gemology rediscover nature's gifts every day.  Ode to Gemology , by a GIA on-campus student. Dispersion, fire, adventurescence. Orient, sheen, or iridescence. Refractive index, high or low. The luster should indicate that, you know. Polarization, double or single. What to do now, they intermingle. Pleochroic colors you really should see. Was that only two, or actually three? Birefringence should help you a lot. Use your polarizer and watch the spot. Now, did it jump most on low or high? Sure, you can get it if you really try! Your liquids should be an aid, I think. Does it float, suspend, or slowly sink? Just use your imagination now. (He doesn't see me wiping my brow.) Solid inclusions or only bubbles? Huh, th...

The Cowardice of Corporate Jargon

Picture this: an email lands in your inbox. A colleague—maybe even a friend—needs a favor, a second set of eyes, a moment of your time. You sigh, stare at the glow of your monitor, and type: “I’d love to help, but I just don’t have the bandwidth right now.” Hit send. Problem solved. Conscience clear. Except it shouldn’t be. Most of us have said or sent that line at least once, hoping it would land gently. On the surface, it’s perfect—efficient, polite, even self-aware. And that’s exactly the problem. It lets you decline without ever quite telling the truth. You didn’t just say no; you softened the discomfort of being human until it barely felt like a feeling at all. Instead of admitting, I’m overwhelmed , or I don’t have the energy , you reach for the sterile vocabulary of a server room. You turn a feeling into a metric. A boundary into a system limitation. Apologies, my data transfer rate is capped. Please submit a ticket to my emotional help desk. It’s a clever little trick—and an un...

Tuck, Roll, and Rain

In this episode, the interactive obstacle course of the San Marcos bike path. (Sunday, April 12, 2026) It started out as a beautiful day for a ride—our usual 30-mile Sunday trek to Escondido. The weather was moody, with brooding dark clouds threatening rain, but the streets were mostly empty. The traffic was light, and the bike paths were eerily quiet. It gave off the distinct, yet entirely false, illusion of a peaceful sanctuary. We were headed home, and I had settled into a smooth, hypnotic cadence on the path across from Palomar College in San Marcos. I was listening to a Cubs game at Wrigley Field, minding my own business, and dressed to be seen. Between my colorful jersey and my cherry-red vest, I was illuminated like a human traffic cone. You could spot me from low Earth orbit. Apparently, that wasn't visible enough. Up ahead, I spotted another cyclist. He was cruising along in a state of pure, unhelmeted zen—completely unburdened by the earthly concepts of peripheral vision ...