It was unseasonably cool for a mid-July day in New England. It was in the 50s and raining. I had the heat on low to get rid of the chill and dampness for my 350-mile drive to northern Maine. A travel bag for my clothes, a gear bag for my fishing tackle, and a big bucket of anxiety I usually take with me on trips. I’m on a mission; let’s get this done.

I was on my way to meet a squad of my brothers and sisters, most of them for the first time. We are united in our relationship to our common uncle, Uncle Sam. This would be my Veteran family for the next few days. There were 10 veterans, ranging in age from late 20s to early 70s – seven of whom I had never met.

We were mustered together to fight our common enemy – our disabilities, seen and unseen. We had seen things in combat we can’t describe and felt emotions we didn’t know existed. We saw the dark side of mankind. It cost us our innocence and changed us forever. Now we are on patrol again, brimming with a “can-do” attitude. We’re not casualties of war, because we are survivors.

What brought us together is our love of fly fishing, the great organization, Project Healing Waters Fly Fishing (PHWFF) and the wonderful and generous people of The Megantic Fish & Game Club. With fly fishing, being on the water nestling into nature and engaging in the flowing Tai Chi like moves of fly casting – it’s a meditation that helps soothe what ails you.

As Thoreau said, “Most men go fishing all their lives without knowing that it is not fish that they are after.” PHWWFF was founded for veterans, but anyone can benefit from fly fishing.

We rendezvoused in northern Maine and convoyed, in private vehicles, 80 miles to the camp’s loading dock. We loaded our gear onto the sturdy 18-foot Alaskan Lunds, and made the 1½-mile crossing to camp without incident. Our amphibious landing, at a very spacious dock, went smooth as silk.

Waiting at the dock to greet us with big smiles and open arms were the sponsoring club members. This wasn’t a group of strangers, it was a group of friends we hadn’t met yet. They didn’t just welcome us into their camp, they welcomed us into their hearts. They couldn’t have been nicer.

This new “family” did everything together. We shared the large Rangeley fishing boats, swapping fishing tales, and probably lies. We shared the large table in the dining hall that seated all 20 of us at once. The cuisine was so plentiful and scrumptious that any five-star restaurant would be proud to serve it. Their motto is, “Sleep until you’re hungry and eat until you’re tired.” We became one big REEL family.

When going out fishing with my “family” in the boats, I knew I could leave my proverbial bucket of anxiety on the dock. I wouldn’t be needing it that day. There was a veteran and a club member in each of the Rangeley boats, along with a Maine Guide who did all the rowing, knew all the hot spots and what fly to use – mostly dry flies. Casting feels like I am throwing all of my troubles into the cool, clear water. They drown, my mind is cleansed and I get a fresh start with new, pleasant memories.

Then, WHAM, an explosion where my dry fly was sitting on the surface of the water and my line snaps to attention just like we did in boot camp. Now I am connected to the wild side of nature. It’s exhilarating! My mind is busy and I feel alive. Sometimes I reel the fish in. I win and cheer for my success. Sometimes the fish dances on its tail and spits the fly at me. When that happens, the fish wins, and I cheer for the fish.

On the last evening, after stuffing ourselves again at dinner, a few of us hiked about a third of a mile on a dark path through the woods to a lake I hadn’t fished yet. The harmony of sounds carried on the water were the haunting echoes of the loon’s tremolo, also known as the “crazy laugh.” It is used to signal alarm, and to advertise and defend its territory. The other sound came from a female veteran in a nearby boat. Her contagious laugh sounded like she had also left her anxiety on the shore.

The sky looked like it was on fire as the sun was setting between two distant hills. I realized then how the phrase “Purple Mountain Majesty” was born. The placid surface of the lake was as smooth as glass. Whenever a Brook Trout broke the black surface to sip a fly, its rings turned the water red from the low sun shining through. They looked like rings of fire or craters of red-hot lava sprinkled across the approaching dusk.

I appreciated every fish I caught on the trip, from the 14-incher down to the 6-incher. I considered each one a beautiful gift from Mother Nature.

There are some subtle similarities between fishing and the military. That could be why veterans are so readily attracted to it. You can go into the wilds alone or with a small group of friends and feel alive. Instead of a helmet and flak jacket, you don a sun hat and a fishing vest. Instead of magazines loaded with ammo stuffed into your pockets, you have fly boxes crammed with your killer flies. Having a fly rod in your hand to go after your quarry is lighter and a lot more fun than toting a rifle around.

In all, the trip was a huge success. On the last day, standing on the dock, we shared hugs and goodbyes before heading home with a creel of great memories. With the gear stored in the boat, the only thing on the dock was the bucket with my anxieties. As I approached it, I could see that most of them had evaporated during my time there. The few that were left, I dumped into the lake and watched as they sank into the depths and disappeared.

Thank you, one and all.

Tight lines and Semper Fi.

A Marine Vietnam War veteran, John Boiros wrote this in July 2016.