Jason Shemchuk

“Wanna catch a fish pop?” He always asks the same way. I always smile. Yes. Let’s go. I do want to catch a fish. Even though I know it is not the fish we are after. I know the adventure of the river motivates him more that the act of fly fishing. I know it is the excitement of the car drive and the sounds of Cory Morrow and Waylon Jennings as he softly sings along. I know it is the journey into a part of his father’s world that convinces him he is tasting something special. Like staying up past bedtime on the Fourth of July. I know all of that. Or maybe none of it. Maybe he is teaching me as much about fly fishing as I have to give. Or at least giving me the chance to see who he is against the pure backdrop of a cold trout stream cut through ancient mountains.

It happened again and I shook my head. The moment I went to tie the flashback into the flashback pheasant tail I was diligently creating, my thread broke. It happens. Rare. But still happens. The olive strand unraveled just enough to taunt me. Hope? There was no hope. I was done with this fly and reached to throw it away, then stopped. Could I save it?

After lunch, my brother fished the seam that separated the fast water along the far bank from the slack water along the island where we ate our lunch.