It has become an anniversary theme with us, my husband and me, this notion of fly fishing. I find it wildly romantic—the thought of the trip out west; the cold, rushing stream; both of us side-by-side, lines unfurling, loop-pull, loop-cast, loop-pull, loop-cast. I see us there in that water, together, connected in task and yet two people, separate and independent in thought.
In this dream, the sky goes on forever.
There is poetry in each motion.
For our anniversary two years ago, Tim and I bought each other fly fishing rods. At that moment, I must say, it was a rather impulsive decision. This may well explain the reason that two years later—in spite of the fact we live on a fine pond for fishing—I’ve never made the first cast.
For our anniversary this year, we bought each other Tilleys. It was only slightly less impulsive as gifts go; the investment hat was my planned surprise for Tim, but when we made the trek to Mast General for him try it on, it became clear to both of us I had to have one, too.
Which brings us to this moment, here in these Blue Ridge mountains.
Let’s get up early tomorrow and fly fish Tim said, and recognizing what a great opportunity it would be for me to snap some misty mountain photos, I eagerly agreed.
Let me say this: It’s harder to achieve poetic motion when fly casting than you might damn suppose.
Nevertheless, after about my third try, I was completely hooked. (pun fully intended)
We’re going out again tomorrow.
I can’t wait.
30 Days of Fun II