Who needs analysis and second guessing? Not my kid. He’ll stick with giddy wonder, thank you very much.
At the Murray, Lefty Kreh, George Anderson and a who’s who of the fly fishing world look down upon the patrons. It’s mid afternoon and the bar is lined with seasoned guides, young fishing bums, and a few more well to do anglers who have long since retired from their day jobs.
Fishing isn’t necessarily about numbers but when the sun sets and you’ve brought maybe three fish to hand compared to thirty that were caught by the eight year old fishing in the boat next to you, on what you consider one of your home waters, you can’t help but take notice.
When I turn into some crazed version of a body builder with a fly swatter my chances of catching anything greatly diminish.
The subsurface safari that is our backyard helps keep the squirt in the sun, off the couch and out of our hair. And wouldn’t you know it… the worms are even helpful for catching the occasional fish.
Utter joy on the part of the kids was punctuated by complaints that “this is a terrible day to be out, the bugs are awful”. We worked to connect the dots.
Yesterday I was risking sunburn and drinking gin and tonics. Today a chain law was in effect. Grouse about it all you want, but in Wyoming this is how it works. And it’s not just the weather. Wyoming is rough around the edges.
I’m not one to fish and tell, but there’s a fine line between keeping your honey-holes secret and writing manifestos in a shack in the woods.
Like the imperfect sentence that almost conveys an elusive bit of truth, this particular run can’t be left alone. Something rare and universal is lingering there, just beyond the periphery, so you turn to it again, and again, and again, finding it just gone each time… maddening.
It’s a big world, and these places, small and unlikely, sown far and wide, are indifferent to our discovery. They can’t be manufactured and they don’t come to you.