The End

On Father’s Day, my family decided to visit a privately owned wildlife park east of town. With the promise of wolves, bears, and mountain lions, I was all in. Even though the early summer heat was already here, and with the lack of shade out at the park, I knew our adventure would be short-lived, but still an adventure nonetheless.

With the midday heat, if I were a bear, I wouldn’t come out for anything, not even ripe human trash. So, I ad-libbed the family and adult versions of each lack of encounter we didn’t have. Even the cats, which had a covered sleeping platform with glass next to us, didn’t even move. I convinced my 3 1/2-year-old son to even speak up to entice our predator to open an eye, yet nothing. As we left, I swear one of the sleeping cats lifted a paw to give us the middle finger. Somehow, I didn’t blame him.

Randomly, I caught my wife looking at real estate on her phone, which meant she was over the park. With my son’s flushed cheeks and sweat rolling out of his hat, I knew we were done here.

While packing up our assorted gear into my pack, my wife got my attention with a house for sale. Conveniently, it was on our way back to the city, so I prompted a call to our realtor friend for a look-see. Sho-nuff, it was ON in the time it took to drive there.

I don’t look at houses as a sense of entertainment, especially when I’m “off the clock.” I’m a general contractor, and most days I’m in people’s houses, if you get my drift.

Well, this turned out to be “the house.” A month later, and of course the hottest month of the year, we’re moving. Fortunately, we gained 2,000 ft in elevation, so it was cooler at the new house, but damn, it was sure toasty down in the valley from which we came.

So let’s go to present time. We’ve been here for six months, and we’re settling in. It’s nice to live amongst the conifers and to have snow on the ground for the last three months. A week before Halloween, the local herd of deer ate our jack-o’-lanterns right off the front door. But hey, mountain living! I'd rather that than the local herd of teenage degenerates molesting pumpkins with golf clubs or M-80s. Purely fictitious, I know nothing of the idea of said teen degenerate tendencies—none.

Driving to good water is actually better and easier, but too bad it’s all iced over. Ironically, now driving to the winter spots in the city is actually harder. The only satisfaction of the stocked ponds in the city was to stave off the winter “shack nasties.” You can only do so many false casts in the driveway before it becomes redundant and hopeless. Even if you have a bucket out there as a target, you still feel pathetic, and the event is short-lived. Yes, a 20-yard double haul is fun for a second, but even that seems pointless in your gravel driveway while the lone raven looks down at you from his power pole and won’t spook and fly away. I’m sure as I reel in the line and turn my back, he’s giving me the finger—or the claw—also.

So I go to my collection of great fish books from the bookcase, dig out a favorite, and easily remember the storyline visuals. I then drift off into my own summer visuals of a special river. Catching myself going down that hole, I close the book. Shack nasties.

On a bright Sunday morning, with a fresh cup of coffee, I find myself standing over my fly-tying desk. It’s not a “bench”—I’m not that cool. I’ve even debated cutting down the legs of my stool to sit better at it. It’s that short. It was probably made for a kid or someone who worked for the Great Oz. I found it alongside the road—seemingly someone else’s discarded frustration also.

Breezing through my fly boxes, I’m looking at inventory quantities. That’s my lead-in to actually start tying more flies. I tell myself, okay, okay, here’s a dozen, size 18 dry fly hooks. Now dump them out in the dish and dig out dubbing and hackle. You’re going to make some Adams. And look, there’s a package of size 16s. So next dozen, go up a size.

At about the fourth fly, I’ve caught myself looking at nymph hooks, gazing up at my pheasant tails protruding from an old mug my father gave me. The next thing is the bead head package. There goes the two dozen Adams I was going to make. Then I was onto pheasant tails, until I realized I should really make a variety of elk hair caddis. Here we go, suffering from the shack nasties.

I will give myself credit for staying at the desk. I might be all over the place with caffeine induced ADD, but by the time I need another cup of coffee, I’ve spun out two dozen flies. I’ve even delved into the foam side of things with a few beetles and funny-looking but fishy hoppers. So, fortunately, I’m now pleased with my progress. Gazing out the window looking west at the 10,000 ft range across the valley, I see more dark clouds building. The fog-like white is blanketing the peaks, trees, and coming this way. The shack nasties have me convinced I will never fish again—ever!

I even entered the YouTube black hole. I do admit that there are a few people on there that I actually appreciate: Huge Fly Fisherman, Trippin’ on Trout, and the curveball, Does It Doom, which I won’t go into. I don’t know how long I was in that black hole, but by the time I got out, the vision of Rip Van Winkle was prevalent. I need to go shave.

Fish on.