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 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 move. I convinced my 3½-year-old son to 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. That meant she was over the park, and 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, 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 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 were moving. Fortunately, we gained 2,000 feet in elevation, so it was cooler at the new house—but damn, it was sure toasty down in the valley we came from.

Fast forward to present time. We’ve been here six months and are settling in. It’s nice to live among the conifers and 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! Rather that than the local herd of teenage degenerates molesting pumpkins with golf clubs or M-80s. Purely fictitious, of course.

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 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 with a bucket as a target, you still feel pathetic. A 20-yard double haul is fun for a second, but even it seems pointless in your gravel driveway while a lone raven looks down at you from his power pole and won’t spook or 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 on the bookcase. Dig out a favorite, easily remember the storyline visuals, 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. 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.

Breezing through my fly boxes, I check 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. Dump them into the dish, dig out dubbing and hackle. You’re going to make some Adam’s. And look, there’s a package of size 16s. Next dozen, go up a size.

By 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. Next thing is the bead head package. There goes the two dozen Adam’s I was going to make. On to pheasant tails, until I realize I should really make a variety of Elk Hair Caddis—here we go, suffering from the shack nasties.

I’ll 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 foam, with a few Beatles and funny-looking—but fishy—hoppers. Pleased with my progress, gazing out the window west at the 10,000-foot range across the valley, I see dark clouds building, fog-like white blanketing the peaks and trees, coming this way. Shack nasties have me convinced I’ll never fish again—ever.

I even entered the YouTube black hole. I do admit there are a few people I appreciate—Hugh Fly Fisherman, Trippin on Trout, and, as a 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