This winter more or less sucked here in California. There were a couple nice swells that pushed up and down the coast, but the mountains stayed a shade of brown from Bear to Tahoe and everywhere in between. A handful of good turns were made, yet that is about it. Not much telltale powder to write home about. With that in mind, if there is no saving the state in the way of snow, then I’m ready to move on; bring me spring.
And from the looks and feels of it of it so far, spring is bringing it on HOT. With temperatures already reaching 90-plus, we’re experiencing the likes of a full-blown summer scorcher. Anyway, all this is to say it is high time to toss the boards and boots in the shed and dust off the nine-weight and waders — we’re going fly fishing, boys!
Last June, the Montana Wild crew took a strike mission to Oregon to evade a serious spring run-off that was still running strong. (Black bear season was over, so not much to evade there.)
In an eastern-most desert of the Beaver State, they found a “tiny, mysterious tailwater” that turned up the type of trout you definitely write home about. We’re talking about them bucknasty browns.
Excited yet? I am. Really, really excited. And this level of excitement has been a long time coming.
Fly fishing is one of those amazing passions that tends to take shape later in life. It was the same for me. I remember having a much different perspective for it growing up. You might call it a passion as well. I hated fly fishing and everything that it came with. I hated it so much there were stretches of time (generally leading up to trips) that I hated my father. I hated him for hauling me out to the middle of Missouri in the dehydrated dog days of August. I hated him for swinging by this fly shop on the outskirts of town where wrinkly old geezers waxed nostalgic about rivers past while appreciating ties through bottle-cap glasses. And I hated him most for waking me up at 4:30 or 5 to stand in cold water while having my cast scrutinized. The only time I didn’t hate him during these stretches was around 8 a.m. when we head in to the breakfast nook and I ate away that hate with an oversized FRIED cinnamon roll. But as soon as the food coma set in, I hated him again.
Then I grew up, and that hate turned into love. I love him for showing me new spots in rural Idaho. I love him for introducing me to friends and guides he has made through the years, and hearing all their stories from cross-country campers to starry expanses that lighted up the entire night. And I love him for instilling in me a sense of urgency to live life that makes 9 or 10 a.m. feels late in the day. The only time I don’t love him is when he doesn’t invite me on these trips or lets me sleep in because I looked tired the night before, making me miss out on an early morning. But as soon as we’re loading up the back of the truck with our rods and coolers, I love him again.
Funny how that works.
Enough of that, though. I’m dialing up pops and planning that trip. This edit/love letter from the Wild crew will likely inspire you to do something similar.
