Sometimes an escape to the water is called for; sometimes it’s what is needed to press “reset” and keep the day-in-day-out routine rolling. This past week moved along pretty normally down at Orvis HQ creative services, and those that know me well know I don’t do “normal” well. I need projects, adrenaline, challenges.
Normal is a momentous struggle.
And I think it’s been reflected in my home life. The apartment is now freakin’ spotless, and I’ve sorted through both fishing and photography gear and equipment twice now, running inventory and cleaning. I oven-dried tomatoes simply out of curiosity. Burned my quads out on a morning run where I went a little too hard, a little too soon. Consumed copious amounts of tea and coffee while wading through August’s magazine photo calls, bouncing away on my balance ball at the folding table desk and rocking out to whatever randomness comes up on iTunes.
It’s been a bit manic.
So when fellow Orvis-ite Jackie suggested we get out for a night of fishing, I was all ears. Outside, yes. Fishing, yes. Camera, yes. After the workday we met up at a tiny park in the village of Arlington, and drove a few miles down the road to a particular pool on the Battenkill. The walk in was through a nicely-mown path in a farmer’s field (full confession: I miss bushwhacking through the willows for my fishing; somehow it feels like you earn it more), and we slid down the bank to find a nice riffle followed by a lovely pool that boasted a promising channel along the far side. The water was gin-clear and maybe a little low (I don’t these waters yet) but it was comply nice to be out.
Jackie, in preparation for her first steelhead Oregon trip next month, rigged up her two-hand rod with a Wooly Bugger and logged some practice. In a bit of an experimental mood, I tied on one of my favorite Western flies, the Buzzball.. Figuring we largely had the bases covered, we split up and went to work.
There is no better place to sort through problems—perceived, genuine, or otherwise—than on the water. My lack of fishing hours of late reared its ugly head early on, manifesting in a nasty tailing loop. Snapping out of whatever head space I was wandering lost in, I actually began to pay attention and settled into the simple routine of dry fly fishing. The tailing loop went away. The mind cleared. And the late summer sunlight dappled the water oh-so-nicely.
Cast, mend, mend, mend. Feed line. Cast, mend, mend, mend. Rinse and repeat.
After blindly prospecting a few sections of water, I glanced around at the changing light and pulled the camera out. The rod was carefully propped in a nearby tree, and I promptly waded deeper and crouched down, camera aimed down the river at Jackie. In typical form, my attention was on the shot and not on my wading; I dipped too deep and took on water. (I’ve killed on iPhone this same way in the Puget Sound; you’d think I’d learn.) Cold river water down the waders when you’re wearing a skirt underneath is not a happy thing.
Eh, the hell with it. Water and cameras make the world better.
My waterproof camera bag had decided to bite the dust as we were rigging at the car (damn zipper!), so the camera spent the trip stylishly tucked down the front of my waders when I was wading deep. It’s not a good look, but it gets the job done. And at day’s end, that’s what it’s all about.
Several hours later we walked back out, fish-less (and having seen no sign of fish) but both far more mellow than we had been going in. We split up back at the park, and headed back to our respective homes to get some sleep before the next day’s return to the office. Ignoring the wet skirt, I stopped in the grocery store and was happy to see one coworker and one good friend… that’s what small towns are all about. Wet skirt and fishing shirt be damned, you’re going to run into folks. It makes it more fun when the people one runs into are also fishy folk.
As noted in a blog post nearly a year ago: Weird things happen. Awesome people pop up in unexpected places. And we go fishing.
