“No mom…I’m not on drugs.” I replied as I continue to tell my mother about the real magic that happened on the river tonight. I’m not talking about the time at your best friend’s 8th birthday party where the weird guy no one knew pulled a rabbit out of a hat, or even that one time when Chris Angel levitated on live television. I’m talking about a day when I got out of work an hour late, when I drove home while trying to ponder a reason good enough to convince myself to come back and do it all again tomorrow, when suddenly I felt a call from the river. I pulled into the dirt and found no one at my favorite fishing spot. I grabbed my rod, and a plastic tin of flies I’d spun up on the vise the night before. I walked down to the river, and it seemed like the infamous “St. Vrain caddis” were waiting to hatch until I got there. They immediately began drunkenly buzzing around, like the good folks do at a wedding reception. Flying around with zero intent, just waiting on a hungry nose to swallow them up in a conversation about my future. I had a single #18 extended body PMD tied on, but I was confident in my fly, and halfway confident in my drift. Cast after cast, they just wouldn’t stop eating my fly. I had a shot on almost every cast, and the times when I could actually float my fly through the ever-changing micro currents, I managed to meet some trout. These are moments that can only be described by an angler as real magic.
This night brought me back to other moments I’ve experienced real magic. This is the part of the story when I introduce you to Ruth. Ruth was a woman in her 80’s, who walked into the fly shop and booked an end of season half day fishing trip with a crusty burnt-out guide on his 20 or 30 something-ith day of work straight. Ruth was very specific about her expectations for the day. She chose the time, the fishery, and the amount of time she’d like to spend just, “trying to see what all this hooplah’s all about”. She didn’t care to catch a fish but was more interested in figuring out why folks like me spend countless hours, day after day, for years on end, throwing feathers wrapped around a hook into flowing water, with hopes to find a hungry trout.
When I met Ruth at the fly shop that morning my intentions for the day quickly became solely trying to keep her safe while wading in a river that makes you feel like you’re walking across greased up bowling balls while someone’s trying to kick your feet out from under you. She was so sweet, and really gave me a breath of fresh air after I’d spent the last three weeks straight with the “Dave’s from LA” who were just finding ways to spend their hard-earned money on a glimpse of a day spent outside of the cubicle, actually living.
Ruth and I made our way down to the river where she again informed me that she didn’t think she was going to catch anything. I responded with, “Ruth, you’ve just said the magic words. You are absolutely going to catch a fish today”. I was ready to work as hard as I possibly could to get a fish in the basket, if for nothing more than bragging rights back at the shop. After a short casting demonstration, I found Ruth to be an absolute natural. She made 3 casts and then the bobber dropped. She exclaimed, “I think I got one!” and pulled the rod tip to the sky like she’d been fly fishing her entire life. She fought the brown trout like an absolute pro all the way into the net. After we landed the fish, we popped the hook and snapped a quick photo before she released it back into the river and gave me a fish slime filled high five. Ruth informed me that she was done fishing at that point. “I’d just like to leave this memory on a high note. Would it be okay if we just sat on the bank and talked for a little bit?” she asked.
Ruth continued to inform me about her late husband that she had recently lost, and all his fly fishing exploits. This guy liked fly fishing, almost as much as I did. I listened to story after story about times he’d caught steelhead in the pacific northwest, large rainbow trout in a famous Colorado fishery, and even bonefish in Mexico. Ruth let me know that one of her biggest regrets was that she came with him on all these trips, but never actually fished with him, because she thought she wouldn’t be good at it. I let Ruth know that she handled the morning we spent like an absolute pro, and that she is one of the few people who truly understood what fly fishing was about, regardless of time spent with a fly rod in hand. I let her know that her husband would be so proud of her on this beautiful October morning. We embraced a tear-filled hug on the bank of this magic river, and as we both wiped the water from our eyes, we agreed that her husband was there with us, helping us catch that beautiful trout. This is what fly fishing is all about. Time spent in pursuit of moments of real magic.