Sweet Stink of Success

FINALLY. The planets aligned. I made it up LHF. Even parking next to a petrified pungent painted pest, could not keep the excitement at bay. Finally. I cannot count how many times I've fished this stretch of stream, but it changes every time. No man can step into the same river twice. I am enthralled at the capacity that standing in rushing water, casting a small tangle of feathers and fur with a graphite stick has in making one forget all else. A single minded focus takes over, time, space and bodily functions cease to matter. What could be greater? Possibly the DC you stashed in a snowbank for the walk out. Possibly. Will try again tomorrow.

Kodachrome

It's all about the pictures. The visual images that adhere themselves to the dendrites in our grey matter. I can't remember things I said in a meeting last week, but in a nano second with perfect clarity I can see my first fly fishing run on Jones Hole. Flipping a monstrous rubber band based crane fly larva through the mossy run, trying to distinguish the take from the moss on the bottom. The blue of the sky contrasting against the massive red rock wall rising above the stream. Looking up to a circling bird till I lose my balance. The image has no meta data, can't remember what year it was, or even what time of year, but it was early and unforgettable. I remember how it looked and felt.

Volumes of these images reside in some random order in my mind. When I return to a familiar body of water, the images become even more detailed and specific. Looking at a particular run on Wilson's creek brings back the cast, the drift, the mend, the rise, the take, play and release- all like it just happened and I feel connected to that place and that moment, but especially that place, like we shared something special together that neither of us will ever forget.

And it's a little disappointing when that run doesn't hold a fish on this day, but the image isn't tarnished, expectations simply increased for the next time.

I read once, years ago, of Traver pining over lost brooke trout water in his beloved UP (upper peninsula)- decimated by logging. I didn't then, but I do now, understand that losing the creek meant losing those images, losing those feelings, losing part of himself.

So I returned to a favorite run, one with multiple vivid images. And this day, certain holds were empty, but high water created other opportunities and I stood high on a rock and surveyed flat, shin deep waters, slow, but not pooled, difficult to fish and I imagined standing on a flat searching for a bonefish. Eventually a feeding brown was spotted. A gentle cast left him oblivious until the fly tumbled into his view and he shifted to and took it in. Another day, another trout, another visual image for a favorite spot, not competing with other fond images, but standing on it's own, providing it's own reward and adding to the depth of connection to this place.