When I was a little kid, rivers seemed to have magic powers.
My biggest worries at the time were learning multiplication tables, trying to figure out why my friends were into ballet and not camping, and a series of cross-country moves. (The moves were less of a worry, more of an adventure.)
But no matter how many problems seemed to creep up, there was always some river trip to look forward to. To my everlasting gratiude, my parents were religious about getting Jake and I outside as kids. The mountains were our playground, and the rivers the biggest, best twisty slide any kid could hope for.
As I grew older, rivers became less of a playground and more of an escape. Bad day at work? A drive up the canyon to catch the evening hatch seemed to calm my mind. A bitter -20F morning in January and cabin fever hits badly? Load up the camera and a thermos of hot tea and catch sunrise over the Gallatin. Feeling like my career is going in the wrong direction? A day swinging soft hackles on the Firehole with dad seemingly fixes everything.
And, for the last five or so years rivers have, rather ironically, directly and indirectly provided the means to make a living. Lakes, especially high mountain lakes, have their charm and the ocean, well, we are still figuring each other out, but rivers? We have an understanding.
This week, when a couple of big projects landed on my plate—both in the day job and the freelance world—I needed some head-clearing time. Problems seem to work themselves out when around moving water, and life fluxes back into perspective. And so, for the past several nights I’ve been escaping the office and heading up a dirt road to fish a local creek that is just now bouncing back after being wiped out by Hurricane Irene. I will freely admit to not being much of a small stream angler. The big waters of the West are home, and Thursday night, fishing tight cover and skinny pools, there were certainly flies lost to trees and a variety of growled curses. It’s two-weight water, and the 9’ 5 just doesn’t quite cut it.
But, you know what? It was fun. I fished until dark, then walked out listening to falling leaves settling to the ground around me. Bumped down the dirt road in the darkness, the soundtrack to Lawless rumbling in the background.
And life was pretty good. The river made it better.
Friday I made it back two more times. Once during the lunch break and once more in the evening after work. The evening proved to be most productive… the two hours before dark saw six native Brookies to hand, including one who wasn’t half bad. In the small creek, where 3-6” trout are the average, a handful of native trout is exciting. But you know what? It may just be the little guys that make me happiest. There is something incredible about the artistry of fingerling trout. The perfection in each little white-tipped fin, the bright eyes and deep colors. Pretty sure I crouched by one pool as I released my first trout of the evening with a stupid grin on my face, happy to be, for once, in the here and now and not worrying about deadlines and bookkeeping and keeping clients happy.
And maybe that’s what it really is about. To fish, really fish, you can’t be chewing over problems in your mind. You can’t let the niggling thoughts worry away at your brain. The present commands and concentration bends to a quiet cast and a smooth drift. The rest of the world just kind of fades away.
I’m twenty-six and still convinced rivers have magic powers.
