In the Dance of Water and Wind

For me, fly fishing has always been a spiritual experience—a way to connect with and worship the world around me. Late August in the Big Thompson Canyon is the perfect place to spend a day losing myself in nature’s wonders, the sound of the river, and—hopefully—a few fish as well. As I pulled off the road, I found a quiet spot, untouched, peaceful, and solitary—perfect.

Stepping out of my car into the cool, early morning air, I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and centered myself among the tall pines. The sun had yet to rise in the deep mountain valley, and only a sliver of light pierced the early morning dew. As night turned to day, I watched the fog rise from the river’s surface, drifting upward, casting shadows and mystery along the banks of the still water.

I stepped further into the crisp mountain air, feeling the chill against my skin as it sent a shiver down my back. Opening the back of the car, I grabbed my gear box, slipped on my coat, and zipped it up. Next, I slid on my waders, the stocking feet fitting snugly as they settled into place. The satisfying click of my boots lacing up echoed in the quiet. I wiggled my toes, as always, to make sure they weren’t too tight. I checked my vest, ensuring each pocket was filled with the tools for the day ahead. Finally, I connected the pieces of my rod, threading the line through the guides with careful precision, not missing a single one. I paused to select a fly, but hesitated. I decided to wait until I was on the river—I would let the stream tell me what it needed first.

I ventured on, cutting through fallen timber and crunching leaves beneath my boots. The forest was waking up around me, birds tweeting high above, undoubtedly discussing the intruder in their midst. Squirrels scurried, chattering and leaping from tree to tree like children playing in the yard. I took it all in, mesmerized by the life surrounding me.

Suddenly, I heard the dull crunch of movement nearby. Behind a wind-blown tree, two antlers poked from the moss-covered log. A deer was sneaking up on me. Our eyes met in quiet recognition. The buck sized me up, deciding I was no threat, and returned to foraging the forest floor. I watched for a moment before returning to my own task—the mission today was trout.

I heard the river before I saw it—its water crashing over rocks with peaceful violence, a sound like a miniature avalanche. In places, the water bubbled and gurgled as currents crossed and mixed in the chaotic order of the mountain stream. I pushed through the trees and emerged to see my reward—a river cutting through the valley, bathed in the first light of dawn. The water rippled over rocks; insects skimmed across the surface, dancing in the flickering light reflecting off the crystal-clear water.

I paused to take it all in. Insects began to hatch, emerging from the depths and taking to the air. Soon after, I saw trout rising, slurping at the surface, catching flies that broke free from their nymphal shells. I considered the transformation—life and death occurring simultaneously, and the metaphors it could teach us. But my thoughts were interrupted as one of the insects landed on my hand, reminding me of my purpose—trout. Another lesson from the river, fleeting and elusive.

I examined the bugs. A size 16-18 blue-winged olive—a perfect match for what I had been hoping for. I tied on a tan parachute, stepped into the icy water, and waded toward the rising trout. I felt the weight of the line soar through the air, landing gently on the surface of the stream. Back and forth, I cast, the rhythmic dance of the fly fisherman—a tempo shaped by years of practice and countless failures. My line flowed downstream, gliding over ripples, scraping past rocks. The bright green of the water contrasted with the dark brown of the riverbed.

The surface broke with a splash, and my fly was taken. The line tightened in my hand. “Fish on!” I whispered to myself.

The trout leapt from the water, sending droplets flying and breaking the stillness of the morning. Using my right index and middle fingers, I secured the line, keeping it tight as the fish thrashed, trying to break free. It swam downstream, but I angled my rod to steer it back upstream. The fish slowed, exhausted by the effort, and I took the opportunity to strip line through my hands, inching it closer.

The trout finally submitted, coming near my feet. I grabbed for my net as it shook one last time, but I pulled it in and scooped the fish up. I marveled at the beauty of the German-speckled trout—its brown and orange hues swirling together, dark spots dotted along its back. Cold mountain water rushed over my hands as I removed the hook, studying the fish before gently releasing it back into the river. The trout lingered for a moment in my hands before slicing through the water, returning to the cool stream it called home.

As I stood there, the peace of the moment settled over me. The balance of life all around reminded me of nature’s majesty. I placed my net back in its holder, settled my feet, and began casting again, on to the next.