The serenity of a fly . . .
I feel that this quote must start out this post . . .
Dear Jesse,
As the moon lingers a moment over the bitterroots, before its descent into the invisible, my mind is filled with song. I find I am humming softly; not to the music, but something else; some place else; a place remembered; a field of grass where no one seemed to have been; except a deer; and the memory is strengthened by the feeling of you, dancing in my awkward arms.
Attending the Fly Fishing convention has brought my thoughts back to my youth on the Cedar River, as well as stirred up my excitement for the spring trout fishing season that is soon to come. Everyday my mind wanders up and down, from side to side, through the Washington, Oregon, Montana, and Idaho rivers. And with every viewing of, "A River Runs Through It", I cannot help but love the serene feeling it gives me. The smell of the hot horse grass and the fluttering of stoneflies. I yearn for summer. To be reunited with the wilderness as well as the memories it is sure to bring.
And all of these thoughts and day-dreams have culminated into me wanting to become a better fly fisherman. And to start . . . I am learning how to tie my own flies. It is a meticulous art. I am already 10 times better than I was, and I am eager to receive my new fly vise that is in the mail as we speak. Right now I am using a antique tying tools that my father purchased at an estate sale and decided to gift to me. It is challenging to tie with, but holds beauty in its nostalgia. I am also practicing my casting. Twice now I have been taking my trusty fly rod down to the part to work on my roll and side casting.
There is no proper word that explains the excitement and fulfillment of catching a fish on a fly. An immitation of the hatch. Each month brings new breeds of Mayflies, Stoneflies, Chironomids, and Caddisflies. And to catch one from a fly made by my hand . . . I can only dream of the experience . . . that will eventually happen.
NOW TO THE JUICY STUFF . . .
The reason I have such an early passion for the outdoors this season is because I realize how troublesome the day-by-day can be.
Plus I don't know if anybody heard about the damn GANG SHOOTING IN FRONT OF MY SHOP in downtown Renton. I did. Because I nearly witnessed the whole thing . . .
I was unloading our truck and . . . POP POP . . . POP POP . . . 4 shots from what seemed to be a Glock pistol were fired into a Mustang type (it happened so fast I couldn't catch the make) car. Then the black man, 25-35 years of age, about 5'11", 225 lbs, wearing a black puffy jacket, black jeans, white T-shirt, and a white bandanna or dew-rag, ran past me with gun held high. I ducked back into the bed of the covered Penske truck and waited. Cops soon followed with guns drawn. Renton Western Wear suffered two bullet holes to windows, but . . .
this should be in a Toyota commercial . . . my truck, which was parked out front . . . lay unscathed. Built Toyota TOUGH!
Anyway, it made me wonder what these people are thinking. Firing a pistol in the middle of the public, with plenty of witnesses . . . over what . . . an argument at the bus stop? Somebody, "holla'd at 'cho bitch"? If they had a bit of sense in that head of theirs wouldn't they think things through? What is the world coming to . . .
Anyways, I am trying to keep my mind positive and Fly Fishing has achieved that throughout the past week. If you haven't tried the sport I urge you to learn . . . it takes time . . . but once learned it is a timeless art . . .
Dear Jesse,
As the moon lingers a moment over the bitterroots, before its descent into the invisible, my mind is filled with song. I find I am humming softly; not to the music, but something else; some place else; a place remembered; a field of grass where no one seemed to have been; except a deer; and the memory is strengthened by the feeling of you, dancing in my awkward arms.
Attending the Fly Fishing convention has brought my thoughts back to my youth on the Cedar River, as well as stirred up my excitement for the spring trout fishing season that is soon to come. Everyday my mind wanders up and down, from side to side, through the Washington, Oregon, Montana, and Idaho rivers. And with every viewing of, "A River Runs Through It", I cannot help but love the serene feeling it gives me. The smell of the hot horse grass and the fluttering of stoneflies. I yearn for summer. To be reunited with the wilderness as well as the memories it is sure to bring.
And all of these thoughts and day-dreams have culminated into me wanting to become a better fly fisherman. And to start . . . I am learning how to tie my own flies. It is a meticulous art. I am already 10 times better than I was, and I am eager to receive my new fly vise that is in the mail as we speak. Right now I am using a antique tying tools that my father purchased at an estate sale and decided to gift to me. It is challenging to tie with, but holds beauty in its nostalgia. I am also practicing my casting. Twice now I have been taking my trusty fly rod down to the part to work on my roll and side casting.
There is no proper word that explains the excitement and fulfillment of catching a fish on a fly. An immitation of the hatch. Each month brings new breeds of Mayflies, Stoneflies, Chironomids, and Caddisflies. And to catch one from a fly made by my hand . . . I can only dream of the experience . . . that will eventually happen.
NOW TO THE JUICY STUFF . . .
The reason I have such an early passion for the outdoors this season is because I realize how troublesome the day-by-day can be.
Plus I don't know if anybody heard about the damn GANG SHOOTING IN FRONT OF MY SHOP in downtown Renton. I did. Because I nearly witnessed the whole thing . . .
I was unloading our truck and . . . POP POP . . . POP POP . . . 4 shots from what seemed to be a Glock pistol were fired into a Mustang type (it happened so fast I couldn't catch the make) car. Then the black man, 25-35 years of age, about 5'11", 225 lbs, wearing a black puffy jacket, black jeans, white T-shirt, and a white bandanna or dew-rag, ran past me with gun held high. I ducked back into the bed of the covered Penske truck and waited. Cops soon followed with guns drawn. Renton Western Wear suffered two bullet holes to windows, but . . .
this should be in a Toyota commercial . . . my truck, which was parked out front . . . lay unscathed. Built Toyota TOUGH!
Anyway, it made me wonder what these people are thinking. Firing a pistol in the middle of the public, with plenty of witnesses . . . over what . . . an argument at the bus stop? Somebody, "holla'd at 'cho bitch"? If they had a bit of sense in that head of theirs wouldn't they think things through? What is the world coming to . . .
Anyways, I am trying to keep my mind positive and Fly Fishing has achieved that throughout the past week. If you haven't tried the sport I urge you to learn . . . it takes time . . . but once learned it is a timeless art . . .