A 7' 6" 4 Glass Rod

When you decide to pick up your whole life and move across the country, it doesn't hit you right away how much things will change. You dream of different views, less rain, more fish, and fewer people. You do not dream about rebuilding your entire life. You don't realize the work involved. You can only see the dream. Reality is much different. 

For much of the past year, I've worked out of the 'she-shed,' a small outdoor building with no air, windows, or heat. Jacob has been working out of a neighbor's workshop. While we're both incredibly grateful for the ability we had to continue working, it was, shall we say, trying. 

A few months ago, with the completion of our tiny house, I moved out of the shed. Not much later, Jacob moved into his new workshop. While we're both still putting things together and getting more accustomed to our new spaces, the work has rolled in.  

Jacob began procuring glass blanks on the day that his building was being installed. Rod building is as much a part of Jacob as fishing itself, if not more so. Early mornings and late nights are spent huddled over rods, and much of our conversations revolve around tapers, grips, paintbrushes, and varnish. We look over different reel seats, examine guides, review swatches. It's not a typical lifestyle, but it's ours. 

This little green rod was a product of the first round of blank procurement. It's a 7'6" 4 weight and I'm still trying to convince Jacob that it's meant to be mine. I'm not sure that'll pan out the way I want it to. 

• 7' 6" 4 weight, 'S' glass

• Spalted maple reel seat with welted cap and ring 

• Modified forward wells grip

• Banded coffee agate stripping guide

• Olive wraps tipped with chocolate and antique gold 

• Original snake brand guides

• vintage style aluminum rod tube with a finely threaded brass end cap and custom rod bag #baglady

Here's to all of our dreams, finally meeting each other! 

#MadeinMancos

Afternoon Rituals

Over the past week, I've developed a new afternoon ritual. As monsoon season is finally upon us, I spend a few moments sitting in my breezeway, listening to the tremendous storms, reading a book. It's all part of my new "slow down" mentality (see Kindness of Friends). The temperature drops significantly, and a wild storm is raging all around me. In an odd sense, I've come to find it's the most relaxing part of my day. I'm sure there's some bizarre 2020 analogy there, but I'll avoid analyzing it too much for the time being. Perhaps another day.

A few weeks ago, this was not the case. Jacob and I headed out to one of our favorite stretches of water filled with all my little brook trout friends. The water levels were not what one would consider ideal.

You see, we've been in a prolonged drought here for quite some time. There are several Craig Childs’ paragraphs that I could direct you to in Apocalyptic Planet, but we'll skip that for now. The point is, the high desert is becoming even more of a desert, and it's not great for my little buddies.

The second problem was that there were more vehicles in the parking area than I have ever seen before. It looked as if the entire world was trying to escape our shared harsh reality on this one tiny stream. I can't fault anyone, hell, I was doing the same thing. None of us is right; this stream belongs to no one, but all of us collectively.

I recalled this trip while sitting in the storm this afternoon—the drastic change from just last week, just last year.

We fished for a few hours, not very long at all, but enough to get out feet wet. I visited with a few friends, only to leave them with the promise that I'll be back again soon. I'm sure that I'm more excited about that then they are.

The world in which we find ourselves can, I believe, evoke one of two emotions; selfishness or empathy. Of course, self-interest is easier. It always is. We all want the world we used to know back. The harder path, the one more difficult to follow, and even more difficult to stick to is empathy. To be empathetic with those around us who are also trying to find their way. To be empathetic with ourselves, acknowledging that we have no idea what we're doing, not really. To understand that we indeed are all in this together.

I fear that many of my fishing adventures this year may not be as epic as they've been in years past, but that's okay. I've got a few good books and memories to hold me over—a cool breeze and a view that I should never take for granted.

The Kindness of Friends

A few mornings back, I sat down on my bed, surrounded by clothes to be put away and a backpack leaning against the wall. That backpack needed packed; there were plates in the sink that needed to washed. The dogs were scrambling around, reminding me that breakfast time was 45 minutes ago. And, worst of all, there were bags piled up in the office.
I had just finished up three days of working 10 hour days. Today should by all accounts be another 10 hour day.
Jacob and I were gifted a weekend away by some of our dearest friends, in the mountains, a time to relax, recharge, and get away. A trip I desperately needed and our friends knew it more than I did. All I could think about was the work in the other room. I sat there on my bed, staring off into the void, thinking about how I could convince Jacob to go without me. My eyes began to focus on my water bottle sitting on the window sill, a big blue Hydroflask covered in stickers.
I've always been a believer is listening to your friends when they give you advice. So many times, I can't see past what's right in front of my face, and it takes a good friend to help me understand the bigger picture around me. Slow Down. It's just a sticker on a water bottle, and Chris has no idea he was mentoring me on my self employed journey when sending it my way, but hey, it's funny how life works. I finished packing up my stuff and packed away nerves, and Jacob and I got the hell out of town.

Wandering around a trout stream with no one else in sight can do wonders. Catching fish on dry flies and wading about in chacos is good for the body and better for the soul. Sitting on a riverbank, watching a dog play unapologetically can remind you of who you should strive to be. And dang, I had forgotten how fun wild brown trout are.

For two whole days, I slowed down. I thought nothing of the news or COVID or rod bags; well, maybe a little of rod bags. I returned renewed and with a new perspective. All thanks to the kindness of friends.

Wildfire

As we rounded the hill, I looked over my shoulder and spotted the smoldering on the ridge; the charred, blackened remains of Pinons, the dark gaps on the mesa.
Last week I got my first emergency text alert warning me of a fire. I could see the plume of smoke from my back porch, and the smoke was overwhelming every morning. I obsessively checked the East Canyon Fire Facebook page and spent hours looking out over the property towards the smoke. I packed an emergency bag for the first time. The newness of this "normal" made me continuously question if I was overreacting or underreacting.
When we drove by the scene of the crime, it was 79% contained. Today it's 98% contained.
In a few miles, we had reached the canyon. There was no evidence that destruction lay just up the road. The air was fresh, and the water ran clear, life was springing up all around us. And so we enjoyed a day away from the problems, caught up the beauty and excited by handfuls of palm-sized brook trout. As I sat in the shade, surrounded by freshly bloomed columbines, I was perfectly happy.
It's hard not to notice that it seems like our country is on fire. You can see the smoke plumes every time you read a paper or watch the news. The stench of carnage is overpowering and overwhelming. Most days, I yearn for a cool spot, surrounded by flowers to forget it all.
On the way back up the mountain, peering over as the fresh wound in the mesa side, I knew that this was natural, necessary. As frightening as fire may be to us, it's nature's way of healing. In years to come, that piece of land will become stronger.
In a way, what we're currently experiencing is like a lightning strike. It was bound to happen, and it needed to happen. As soon as it hit the land, it took off like wildfire, stretching across the country, impacting us all. There's no stopping it, not now. But, there is a way to contain it. If we're diligent in our efforts, leading with an empathetic heart, we can make it to the other side, stronger.
And remember to find your stream from time to time, sit amongst your columbines, and appreciate every little gift that swims your way.

One Step at a Time

It's late afternoon. I can see the hummingbirds swarming around their feeder from my desk. The chipmunks are running around the yard without a care in the world. There's a lizard stuck to my sliding door. I'm writing this from my desk, in my office, in my house.

Over the past year, Jacob and I have survived life in a 27' trailer. We finished the entirety of our home, from drywall to tile to cabinets. We had no earthly idea what we were doing. We managed to make it through quarantine and a pandemic, all while living in the said trailer. We came out on the other side.

And now we learn how to venture back out into our "old" lives. We learn how to adventure and fish and worry less about everything.

If I've learned anything through this incredibly difficult period, it's that honestly, the work can wait. Just walk away. Every second that I was stuck in that trailer during quarantine, all I kept thinking was, "why the hell didn't I get out last year?'

Because it's genuinely those small moments that can keep you going through the most trying times, it might be the memory of your largest fish in some exotic location, or maybe your smallest from your backyard stream. But, those are the things that get you through the toughest situations.

And so, Jacob and I are wading back into it, one step at a time, high water and all.