“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.
I was grounded. The United States budget sequestration in 2013 meant sweeping cuts to the military and because my flying squadron at the USAF Weapons School in Las Vegas was not “combat-coded”, we were left without a class of students to teach for six months. I found myself in the middle of the Nevada desert with no flying duty. In my mind, no flying meant “gone fishing”. But first, I would have to embrace the drive.
Sheets of light sliced through cracks in the steep rock walls and cut through clouds of insects above the river. Thousands of dull blue-grey wings sparkled in and out of the rays shifting through the shadows. Sometimes a breeze carried warmth from where the sun still hit the grass outside canyon to where I waded in the cool evening air.
“Pop! A fish!” It startled me. He waded only a few yards ahead. The river barely reached his tiny shins. We had fished this stretch most of the morning because of it. I was focused on the bend in the river and working out my plan to set him up where the shallow riffle reached a ledge and faster water from the outside flowed in to make a place trout would hold.
A wince. Perhaps a groan. And then another cast. “Ahhh. That was a fish.”
We have all missed a trout we were not expecting. Unprepared. Distracted. Complacent. But there are two times it happens that should not surprise us. Two parts of the drift that are sometimes forgotten. Forgotten by us, but not the trout.
“Why don’t you write Jas?”
Just when I think I have something figured out, the river shows me how much I still have to learn.








