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There's a thick fog hanging on the ground this morning. The ground is still covered in snow and a light, cold rain is falling. Winter is here. And, so are my seasonal blues. I spend hours tucked under a blanket, caught up in the words of Edward Abbey, living in my own Desert Solitare.
I dream about blue skies, big mountains, cutthroat, and the warmth of the sun in the high desert.
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Khaki is my most popular rod bag color. Light khaki, dark khaki, lightweight khaki, lightweight light khaki… You get the point. In fact, I have an entire fabric bin dedicated to khaki. All the other colors and flannel fit in another, much small bin. What can I say, people like their muted tones?
But, every once in a while my little sewing world gets rocked with a bit of color. Okay, maybe more than a little.
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The best years any angler will ever have are their first. It's not that during this time you're particularly good at it, far from it, you're pretty horrible. Most of your time is spent tying on a fly or untangling a knot. Your technique is poor, but you can't quite figure out how to fix it. Everyone else around you catch plenty of fish with seemingly no effort, but you only manage to catch trees and sticks, despite trying your hardest. But make no mistake, these are your best years.
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"Friend,
When you stray or sit and take your ease
On heath or hill, or under spreading trees,
Pray leave no traces of your wayside meal,
No paper bag, no scattered orange peel,
Nor daily journal littered on the grass;
Others may view these with distaste, and pass;
Let no one say, and say it to your shame,
That all was beauty here until you came."
I've driven past this sign half a dozen times. I always make Jacob pull over so I can read it, admire the flowers growing around it, and feel the breeze flowing through the mountains. Winding down the dirt road I always ask aloud; 'I wonder who wrote that?' And, I forget I've wondered just as soon as I say it. The sentiment, the lesson, is what always stuck.
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We've fished this river for three years, several times a year, but not this section. Instead of heading up, as per usual, we took a gravel road down, until we reached the river. It was much smaller than up yonder, more enclosed, like the tunnels we are used to fishing in back East. Looking down into the small stretch of water there were no flashes of light indicating little trout, but we were already here. Plus, why not try and fish an entire stretch of river?
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The parking lot was full. We walked by all the cars, searching for fishy stickers or rod tubes in backseats. Determining that this was a big river, we'd just driven all the way out here, and the ratio of anglers to cars was not that high, we geared up. I swapped out my trusty hip pack for the daypack, as I do on most 'hike' trips. It was filled to the brim with snacks, rain jackets, and water, with all fishing essentials pinned here and there.
Jacob doesn't hike unless there's the return of fishing, a guaranteed pot of gold at the end of a rainbow if you will. Which is why these are my favorite kind of fishing trips, I get to hike with Jacob because the bribe of trout always works.
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