Dad loved to fly fish. He dragged us kids along as he camped and fly fished. One of my earliest memories is of dad standing in the stream casting a colored line through the air. The line would land on the water and then magically dad would have a beautiful cutthroat trout dancing in the silver sunlit water. Back then only the smallest of trout were released; the rest would be cleaned and kept for eating. Trout were always a welcomed meal and on these camping adventures, we would have them for breakfast and dinner.
I try to fly fish one of dad's favorite streams at least once a year. As is common in many places, the fishing never seems to be as good as it was when dad and us kids prowled its water. But part of the adventure is to stand in the water that dad stood in. To catch a native cutthroat just like dad had done. Somehow, there is a connection made, especially if the cutthroat is a naturally produced wild cutthroat. To know that the wild natives are still there and have been reproducing from a continuous line of trout that can go all the way back to when dad fished for them as a kid with his dad definitely provides connection.
In the quiet of the evening my mind remembers and my heart feels. Pale Morning Dun mayfly spinners dance above the water surface their rusty bodies and clear wings reflect the last rays of sun. I watch as trout sip the spent ones laying on the water. A cast, a raise of the rod tip and one of dad's passions is mine. I stay until the pines turn black and blend into the mountainside. I look up to see the stars starting to appear. I hear the gurgle of water, feel the cool canyon breeze. I close my eyes for just a few seconds and hear words form in my mind: Thanks dad. In a world of tumult, you showed me how to find comfort and peace. We will always fly fish together.
