At some point, all of us have to make a strategic retreat. We can’t just keep pressing forward all the time. It’s not practical.

Not to overdo the military analogy, but our lives are like one relentless campaign. There are times when we’re charging full speed ahead, guns blazing. There are times when we’re kind of in neutral, taking stock of the threats that face us. And there are times when, whether we like it or not, the threats become too great, or we’re surprised by some sort of flanking maneuver and we’re forced to take a few steps back, to retreat, even if it’s just a bit, and even if it’s strategic.

And for those of us who fish, the retreat is usually to the water, be it a river, a bonefish flat or even the local farm pond. The river is a refuge, a place where the threats can’t touch us. It’s the cathedral in the face of encroaching vampires. The bomb shelter. The impenetrable bunker.

I’ve had to retreat some over the years. Divorce. Financial stuff. Hell, even a flat tire drops you down a gear, you know? But now, for the first time in years, I’m in full retreat, running like hell for the river. I’m running so far and so fast that I won’t stop until my fly line stretches out over the cold, foreign waters of southern Chile.

This time around, the emerald waters of Patagonia are my cathedral, because the vampires are bleeding me dry.

And it’s been a slow suck, honestly. I didn’t notice it at first, because it was subtle. Then it became … less subtle. And then it delivered a haymaker right to the chin.

Such is life, right? One minute, you’ve got a plan and plan to execute the plan. The next minute you’re trying to figure out what’s going to happen next, and if you can survive the suspense.

And the first thought after getting up off the canvas is, “Jesus, I need to go fishing.”

So off I go. And don’t think I don’t appreciate the fact that, during a time of crisis, I get to board a plane and some 24 hours later land in Santiago, one step closer to Patagonia and to its wild and exotic trout. It’s still fishing. It’s still soul-replenishing. It’s still a retreat — it just takes longer to get to. And the fish are bigger.

I remember, years ago, as a teenager in East Texas, my father’s job was eliminated thanks largely to the plummeting price of oil -- he was a manager for a drilling company, and when the work was on, it was really on. But when a drilling company has rigs stacking up in the yard, it’s the middle-management folks who get the ax first. And my dad got the ax — one day, we were a flourishing family of five with a ski boat parked at the lake and a nice pool in the backyard. The next, we were living hand-to-mouth.

To his credit, though, we kids never really noticed a huge difference. He immediately grabbed a job with a consulting firm that sent him all over the country -- a job he hated, by the way. But that was his “retreat.” He had to take a job he didn’t like so the rest of us could continue to matriculate, high school was upon me, and a spot on the varsity basketball team was there for the taking. My younger brothers were still in elementary school and junior high when that first forced retreat hit us.

A couple years later, my parents split — another retreat, and this one wasn’t so easy to ignore. The cruel game of “pick a parent” was left to my brothers. I was old enough to strike out on my own.

But I remember, even then, arriving back home in Colorado from our “retreat” from Texas, that one of the first things I did was grab a fishing rod and disappear into the Rockies for a few days with my grandfather. That was my own retreat — a much-needed reminder that, when my soul needs mending, it’s best done with my feet atop freestone boulders and cold, clear water running around my knees.

These days, on the downhill side of just about any life marker (age, career, etc.), the retreat is a bit more pointed. It starts with heartbreak and disbelief. Anger comes next. Then some shame for good measure. Finally, realization.

And then, fishing. Because that’s where the regrouping happens. That’s where the map of a lifetime is spread out and a good bottle of Irish whiskey is placed on one corner, just to keep the winds of chance from futzing with it any further. That’s where the next plan gets made — between roll casts to a big brown who doesn’t know I’ve spotted him hiding behind a rock across the river. The next advance, that plan gets made over cocktails at the lodge, where like minds commiserate and bigger brains than mine chime in with advice and, if I’m lucky, opportunity.

But it all starts with that necessary retreat, as unfortunate as it has to be. Often, we have to take that step back. We have to accept the things we can’t control, no matter how sad and ill-timed they are.

I’m retreating to the Andes this time around — to rivers I’ve yet to fish. But they’ll work as I make a new plan. The fish that swim in them, through no small sacrifice, will help knit a tattered soul, one that was frayed and tired, to be honest. Its loose ends were ripe for the tug, and when they were pulled, it unraveled, and it wasn’t pretty.

But now … I’m going fishing. And it’s going to be all right.