3wt7X
Active member
- Joined
- Nov 19, 2008
- Messages
- 670
Please forgive me. This was a little outside my comfort zone. I typed a small prose piece after my eldest daughter hooked and landed her first wild trout on a fly rod.
Winter 2020:
It was an unseasonably warm February day. She was preparing a streamside lunch for the afternoon trip with Dad. Little details like a shore lunch were often lost to him in his excitement to go fishing. The quarry was stream born brown trout. The location was a spring creek a few miles from their house.
For him, this trip represented something instructional. As with many Dads, the beauty of God’s gifts becomes clouded by goals and ambitions. The goal today was to teach her how to cast, hook and land a trout on her own. For her, this trip represented time spent with Dad. A solo adventure, where she would not have to compete with little sister and the other responsibilities he faced.
He helped her don her waders. She proclaimed, “This is funny, like rubber overalls.” As they began to traverse the field, the sun poked through the heavy clouds. It was warm on their skin. The wheat grass was dead and brown, but there was a certain life on the trail. The birds were dancing about between the tree line and field. The scarlet red of a cardinal flashed in the rosebushes. “Great Grandma is watching,” she reminded him.
When they reached the spring, beds of watercress swayed back and forth with the current. The cress displayed a rich green, which inspired thoughts of the spring season to come. The water was gin clear and gave the appearance of a shifting mirror. There were clouds of midge flies in air and he had to fight back her apprehension that they might attack her. One of the best parts about being a father is that you often are afforded opportunity to play hero for the ones you love most, even when the adversary is a minute flying bug.
While his mind was focused on the task at hand, her mind was captivated by sensations of the world around her. The power of the water on her legs. The sway of the trees in the breeze. At eight years old, she often acted mature beyond her years, but the innocence of youth shown bright in her eyes.
He chose a location where the stream forked. At the divide, a calm section of slow-moving water met a sweeping run created by a peninsula. There was a small wood jam deflecting the run into a uniform current seam. He knew if she could avoid casting into the wooded debris, then her presentation would drift naturally with the even current.
Her cast was accurate. As the indicator followed the inside of the current seam, it paused, and she lifted the rod. The rod tip danced with the energy of a wild fish. The sun’s rays exposed flashes of bronze and gold as trout shook its head. Her face beamed with excitement and accomplishment. She guided the trout into the net. “Wet your hands,” he instructed her and for a moment they gazed at the trout’s natural beauty. The day was won. Not for the accomplishment of catching her first wild trout, but for the time they spent together, and the memories made.
Winter 2020:
It was an unseasonably warm February day. She was preparing a streamside lunch for the afternoon trip with Dad. Little details like a shore lunch were often lost to him in his excitement to go fishing. The quarry was stream born brown trout. The location was a spring creek a few miles from their house.
For him, this trip represented something instructional. As with many Dads, the beauty of God’s gifts becomes clouded by goals and ambitions. The goal today was to teach her how to cast, hook and land a trout on her own. For her, this trip represented time spent with Dad. A solo adventure, where she would not have to compete with little sister and the other responsibilities he faced.
He helped her don her waders. She proclaimed, “This is funny, like rubber overalls.” As they began to traverse the field, the sun poked through the heavy clouds. It was warm on their skin. The wheat grass was dead and brown, but there was a certain life on the trail. The birds were dancing about between the tree line and field. The scarlet red of a cardinal flashed in the rosebushes. “Great Grandma is watching,” she reminded him.
When they reached the spring, beds of watercress swayed back and forth with the current. The cress displayed a rich green, which inspired thoughts of the spring season to come. The water was gin clear and gave the appearance of a shifting mirror. There were clouds of midge flies in air and he had to fight back her apprehension that they might attack her. One of the best parts about being a father is that you often are afforded opportunity to play hero for the ones you love most, even when the adversary is a minute flying bug.
While his mind was focused on the task at hand, her mind was captivated by sensations of the world around her. The power of the water on her legs. The sway of the trees in the breeze. At eight years old, she often acted mature beyond her years, but the innocence of youth shown bright in her eyes.
He chose a location where the stream forked. At the divide, a calm section of slow-moving water met a sweeping run created by a peninsula. There was a small wood jam deflecting the run into a uniform current seam. He knew if she could avoid casting into the wooded debris, then her presentation would drift naturally with the even current.
Her cast was accurate. As the indicator followed the inside of the current seam, it paused, and she lifted the rod. The rod tip danced with the energy of a wild fish. The sun’s rays exposed flashes of bronze and gold as trout shook its head. Her face beamed with excitement and accomplishment. She guided the trout into the net. “Wet your hands,” he instructed her and for a moment they gazed at the trout’s natural beauty. The day was won. Not for the accomplishment of catching her first wild trout, but for the time they spent together, and the memories made.
