“In our family, there was no clear line
between religion and fly fishing.”
- A River Runs Through It
For years I hated fly-fishing. Despised the elitism, the exclusion of those early mornings when men rise and slip out of their beds, roles and lives in response to a mysterious summons. Forget the sirens who lured Odysseus, the power of a crisp day and the possibility of catching a rising Rainbow on dries can wield a power all together unimaginable. Before my angst-filled adolescent years, when spinners and good old fashion maggots were the tools of the day, I had been invited; spent many a summer in fact on a small fishing boat floating lazily around lakes, getting yelled at for talking too much. Then something happened: I became a teenager and my Dad picked up an old Orvis Fishing Guide, consumed it hungrily, and set out in search of some water with a cheap rod in hand and a couple of flies.
My younger brother quickly pole-vaulted into the quest for trout using parachute adams and copper johns. I don’t remember if I was asked to tag along. I like to think that I was when I’m feeling emotionally generous. In any event, fly-fishing entered our family home, all our vacations, many an argument and our general consciousness. In those years when our family was capitulated like the Atlantic during a Nor’easter due to my Dad’s career, fly-fishing was at times an anchor and other times a sail sending us careening in high winds.
I married a man who had no interest in fishing. He even managed to navigate nine years of marriage with only a few obligatory casts during family vacations. And then one March we journeyed to Narnia (a.k.a. Durango, CO) and everything changed...
between religion and fly fishing.”
- A River Runs Through It
B emailed me a Christmas list two evenings ago and as I reviewed it, a huge smile crept across my face. At least 50% of the list was related to fly-fishing. In order to explain the huge smile, I must backtrack a few steps...share my history with the sport and some passionate anglers I love.
My Dad found God on a river; my brother grew into a man on a river; and my husband re-discovered his youth on a river. I doubt any of them were aware of the transformation while it was happening, but I saw it.
For years I hated fly-fishing. Despised the elitism, the exclusion of those early mornings when men rise and slip out of their beds, roles and lives in response to a mysterious summons. Forget the sirens who lured Odysseus, the power of a crisp day and the possibility of catching a rising Rainbow on dries can wield a power all together unimaginable. Before my angst-filled adolescent years, when spinners and good old fashion maggots were the tools of the day, I had been invited; spent many a summer in fact on a small fishing boat floating lazily around lakes, getting yelled at for talking too much. Then something happened: I became a teenager and my Dad picked up an old Orvis Fishing Guide, consumed it hungrily, and set out in search of some water with a cheap rod in hand and a couple of flies.
My younger brother quickly pole-vaulted into the quest for trout using parachute adams and copper johns. I don’t remember if I was asked to tag along. I like to think that I was when I’m feeling emotionally generous. In any event, fly-fishing entered our family home, all our vacations, many an argument and our general consciousness. In those years when our family was capitulated like the Atlantic during a Nor’easter due to my Dad’s career, fly-fishing was at times an anchor and other times a sail sending us careening in high winds.
I married a man who had no interest in fishing. He even managed to navigate nine years of marriage with only a few obligatory casts during family vacations. And then one March we journeyed to Narnia (a.k.a. Durango, CO) and everything changed...
(I think this beauty had something to do with B's change of heart :)
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