“ You guys are doing it the right way. All these other people come and swing for a day then get pissed and are foaming out the mouth to pick up the gear. Just put your dues in and keep the fly in the water.”
His Marlboro and Copenhagen laden mouth and raspy voice reassured us as we floated towards the take out in near pitch black. A product of decades on the water and a consumer of countless scenes both repetitive and new, we had no reason to distrust him. In fact, we had no other option.
The amount of time we had spent on this one day would pale in comparison to the total amount we would put in by the end of the adventure and although we didn’t know it, it was to be the most successful having brought exactly 0 fish to hand. It all seemed right as the river glided under us and the sun warmed our beer laden bellies. The bugs were coming off in that way that only happens in the warm glowing pictures of your imagination. You know, on a western river. Far away from home. Deep inside the recesses of your mind tucked neatly between day to day realism and the escapism that keeps that other thing at bay. It seemed surreal except for the fact that we had not experienced any success but in a way, this moment was a precursor to the feelings that would come later. A calm that most certainly would not have been so welcome if it was foretold mere days before. Why? Because that is steelheading and we had to make peace with it.