Where God Speaks: A Fisherman’s Testament
Maybe One Day I’ll Catch a Mermaid
I’ve said for years that I don’t have a fishing hobby — I have a fishing habit. Anyone who knows me knows that my writing tends to wander toward rivers, trout, and the quiet places where the world finally loosens its grip. My dogs show up in my stories too, though they do not fish with me. They would absolutely destroy a good pool.
So when I first read Robert Traver’s Testament of a Fisherman, it felt like someone had written down the things I’ve always known but never quite said out loud. Most people have never heard of Traver or his little manifesto, so I often introduce it this way: he wrote a kind of creed, a confession of why he fished — because he loved to, because trout live in beautiful places, because they cannot be bribed or impressed, because the woods offer solitude without loneliness, and because so many of the things we chase in life are far less important than we pretend. And tucked in there, with a wink, he admits he fishes “because maybe one day I will catch a mermaid.”
If you want to read the full Testament — and you should — you can find it quoted and discussed widely online. This is a link to a visual reading of Travers essay. I highly recommend that you watch it: Testament of a Fisherman by Robert Travers
Even if you’ve never held a fly rod, there’s something in Traver’s words that speaks to the universal human ache for quiet, beauty, and truth.
The River and the Restless Heart
When I step into a river, something in me settles. The current presses against my legs, the light flickers across the surface, and the noise of the world finally fades. I work in the same kind of environment Traver did — structured, demanding, full of people and problems and the constant hum of responsibility. But the river is where I remember who I am.
You don’t have to fish to understand that feeling. Everyone has a place where the soul exhales. For some it’s a garden bed, for others a quiet kitchen, a morning walk, a long drive, or a favorite chair with a cup of coffee. The river is simply my version of what every heart longs for: a sanctuary.
Jesus understood this rhythm. Luke tells us that He “often withdrew to lonely places and prayed.” Even the Son of God needed to step away from the crowds, the demands, the noise. Solitude wasn’t escape — it was communion.
That’s what the river is for me. Not escape. Communion.
The Honesty of Trout and the Honesty of Faith
Traver loved trout because they are honest. They don’t flatter. They don’t care about your résumé or your reputation. They respond only to quietude, humility, and patience. And the longer I fish, the more I realize that faith works the same way.
You cannot bully a trout into rising.
You cannot bully your soul into peace.
You cannot bully God into speaking.
James writes that “God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble.” Grace, like a trout, rises in stillness. It comes to the patient. It comes to the one who stops thrashing long enough to notice the gentle whisper Elijah heard on the mountain.
Even if you’ve never fished, you know what it’s like to long for that kind of honesty — a place where you don’t have to perform, impress, or pretend. A place where you can simply be.
Joy as a Rebellion
One of Traver’s lines always stays with me: fishing, he said, was “an act of small rebellion” in a world where most people spend their lives doing things they hate. I feel that. I think most people do.
We live in a culture that measures worth by productivity, speed, and output. But Ecclesiastes reminds us that joy is not a luxury — it’s obedience. “There is nothing better,” the writer says, “than to eat, drink, and find enjoyment in one’s toil.”
Fishing is my rebellion against a world that wants to turn me into a machine. Your rebellion might look different — baking bread, hiking, painting, reading, or simply sitting quietly with a dog who thinks you hung the moon. But the heart of it is the same: choosing joy, choosing presence, choosing life.
Where Distraction Dies and God Speaks
Traver joked that he loved fishing because there were no telephones on trout waters. He wrote that in 1964. If he saw what we carry in our pockets now, he’d probably flee to the Upper Peninsula and never return.
But he was right: the river is one of the last places where distraction dies. Psalm 46 says, “Be still, and know that I am God.” Stillness is hard to come by these days. But on the river, it comes naturally. The current slows your thoughts. The light softens your breathing. The world shrinks to water, sky, and the possibility of a rise.
And in that quiet, God speaks. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But clearly.
You don’t need a river for that. Stillness can happen anywhere you choose to be fully present. But for me, the river is where I hear Him best. Maybe it’s because I finally stop talking long enough to listen. Maybe it’s because creation has a way of preaching without words. Or maybe — and I say this with a smile — maybe God is a Fly Fisherman.
He certainly seems to enjoy meeting me on the water.
What Matters in the End
Traver ended his Testament by admitting that fishing isn’t terribly important — but most of the things we obsess over aren’t either, and fishing is far more fun. Jesus said it more directly: “What does it profit a man to gain the whole world and lose his soul?”
You don’t need to fish to understand that question. You just need a soul.
The river helps me choose what matters: beauty, quiet, humility, joy, presence, hope, and God. And whether your sanctuary is a river, a garden, a kitchen, or a quiet corner of your home, the invitation is the same.
Slow down.
Pay attention.
Listen for the whisper.
You may even find a mermaid out there — but it’s far more likely that you’ll find God speaking into your heart.