Ovgard

Dr. Professor (not his real name) sat down next to me and my friend, Casey Torres. The class was essentially a field trip for credit, and given that it was before my policy to always pack a fishing rod when I traveled, I was forced to just look wistfully at the lake out the window of the cafe/bar/motel in the one-horse town in rural Lake County, Oregon.

Dr. Professor also looked wistful, though I got the impression his attention was not directed at fish. His look could’ve been from his third beer, but it felt like something deeper.

“Boys,” he said, “I’ve lived a rich life. Full of adventure.”

He wasn’t wrong. The man was quirky but accomplished, having lived out an enviable life in education that was rife with adventure — akin to Indiana Jones — albeit with fewer snakes and Nazis. Some snakes and Nazis, mind you, just fewer.

As he finished his next beer, he went on to tell us in uncharacteristically personal fashion how he’d never married or had children and though he “loved the life he’d lived,” he wished he “could’ve found someone to share it with.”

It kind of broke my heart.

Now, I’ve stayed in touch with several of my undergrad professors, but Dr. Professor isn’t one of them. In fact, this may have been our last conversation. Though we had this talk more than a decade ago, I’ve never forgotten it, and it has become increasingly relevant to me every year into my 30s that I follow in his footsteps: unmarried but having lived a more adventurous life in pursuit of my passion than almost anyone else I know.

His words continue to fuel a nagging voice in the back of my mind saying I made the wrong choice.

Crisis

How do you prepare for an existential crisis?

My second nephew, Brooks, came into the world this summer, and I was faced once again with the reality that I don’t have kids. Granted, I lean (and have long leaned) toward not wanting kids, but knowing it was still an option was always weirdly comforting, I guess. A reminder that I was still a young man.

This week, I turn 33.

Still not too old to settle down, but moving ever closer toward the edge of that bell curve.

Some might look at this number, 33, as life being one-third over, but given that my paternal grandfather died at 61, genetics suggest it’s a lot closer to one-half over. My maternal grandfather lived until 94, so if I split the difference and live until 77, my life is only 43% over.

Probably overly dramatic, but this is the age of Facebook moms and Instagram influencers, so “overly dramatic” is a cornerstone of our culture.

Birthdays are inevitable, but since age 29, I’ve had a mini existential crisis with each subsequent year. Humans don’t develop rings like a tree does in its trunk or a fish does in its otolith (a tiny bone in the ear), but we do develop markers of age that are visible internally if not always on the outside.

33

Some of you are laughing, thinking “I’d love to be 33 again,” and given that my average reader is over 50, your irritation is justified.

Mine is not an age at which most people self-destruct. That comes a few years before — at 30 — or perhaps a few years later, upon reaching 40.

The 29, 39, 49, 59 and 69 age milestones are triggers for many people, leading to marriage and divorce, parenthood, career changes, new vehicles, buying and selling real estate, business ventures, new hobbies, attempts to get healthy and last-ditch attempts at life goals.

It’s why people are most likely to run a marathon at a “milestone age” according to runrepeat.com — that inexplicable need to come to terms with aging by proving to yourself you’ve still got it. Whatever ‘it’ is.

Each new decade of existence brings with it a crate of expectations, comparisons and reflections.

With social media serving as a mirror to show you what your life is in relation to all of your friends and family, your thirties might be the most polarizing decade in your life because it carries a relentless series of incredibly weighty yes or no questions.

Are you married?

Engaged?

In a relationship?

Do you have kids?

Do you still have your hair?

Have you gained weight?

How much?

Have you had friends from high school die yet?

How many?

Do you own a home?

How about a boat, RV or vacation property?

Have a career?

Is your business thriving?

The list goes on and on.

By 30, you’re forced to accept your mortality just enough that you realize time is your most valuable resource and desperately wish for more, even as each subsequent year that passes seems to do so just a bit more quickly.

Though most people answer the above questions and make the resultant major changes at 29 or 30, I was a late bloomer. I didn’t make my major life-altering choices until this year.

After 10 years working in education in Klamath Falls, I changed gears, accepting a full-time military position in Germany that starts this fall. It’s a year-long position, and it’ll be radically new, which is why I’m so excited.

Klamath Falls has been great to me, but I ran out of new experiences long ago, so this will be a great addition to the “Adventurous Life of Luke Ovgard” stories that, with grandchildren looking increasingly unlikely, would otherwise go wasted if not for my readers.

Challenge

Since I’m taking such a radical change, I encourage you to make this change. If you’ve read my column for the eight years it has run but haven’t been fishing in that time, please try fishing once in the next month or two before the winter hits.

Oregon charges $23 for a one-day license or $44 for an annual license, which you can buy online or at most sporting goods stores. The more you fish, the more value that $44 has, so I’d recommend the annual license.

Try a local bass and sunfish pond for a guarantee to catch fish. The young-of-the-year bass should be plentiful in the shallows in the next few weeks, so grab a tiny jig, tip it with a bit of worm and go out and relive your childhood. Whether in your 30s or your 80s, fishing is guaranteed to make you feel younger. I guarantee it.

Some regrets

Like Dr. Professor, you might have regrets. I know I do. But few of my regrets are for actions I took; most are for actions I didn’t take.

If my life ends with another 33 years of incredibly fulfilling life experiences rich with solo travel, fishing and adventure, I’ll make the most of it. Whether or not I share them with the love of my life will influence the richness of those adventures, undoubtedly, but just in case she never materializes, you can share them with me right now by fishing this fall and sharing your story.

If you don’t, there’s no guarantee I won’t sit down next to you in the distant future and overshare my emotions just like Dr. Professor. Like decisions in life, the risk is yours to take.