A Fly Fishing Weekend

This weekend, I relearned a valuable lesson: The peace that comes with fishing. We rented a cabin on the Metolius River in Central Oregon, and I fly fished. I deliberately did not take my watch. Again, I learned the simplicity of watching the river, tying a fly, and casting.

Regular time had no real meaning. I fell into the rhythm of the current, the geese flying low up the river, the solitary snow goose, and the water dipper bobbing on a rock just above the water line. I watched a few fish roll. I watched the bugs, and realized I had matched my fly with the bugs that were about.

I realized I could improve my fishing with some different and longer leader, and maybe a tiny weight, but that really didn't matter, either. I was there and so was the river, and that was all that mattered.

In the later afternoon, we sat by the river and drank wine and talked and watched the thunder heads grow. Later, there would be lightning and rain, but not while we drank wine and watched the light turn from late afternoon to nearly sunset.

I realized that I also enjoyed this when I was a kid. And, sometimes, as an adult. But, not nearly enough.

There is simple joy in simply wading around a river, feeling its power in your legs and being in the midst of its life.

I came back today, to drizzle, and wind, and falling temperatures. My waders and pole and vest are still in the car, and I felt a strong urge to run away and be a kid, again.