Updated: Jul 10, 2020
I’m going to Oregon and I’m going fishing. I’m leaving work for a full week in one big hurry. I’ve booked my flight. Fly rods, reels, flies, waders, boots, rain gear, clothes, camera, notebook, whiskey (snake bites) all need to be packed. I’m going to stand in rivers like the Deschutes, Crooked and Fall. Knee-to-waist-deep in their shifting story. I’m going to stand in these rivers and cast flies to brookies, native rainbows and steelhead. All the stress I’ve picked up and carried around like 80 pounds of crap in an 80 pound bag for the last 6 months will drift off, swirl from eddie to eddie, bust itself on the rocks and disappear downstream, dilute and no longer mine. I’m going to take pictures of the wildness of the northwest. The immense breath of rock, pine, whitewater and sky. Possibly a fish. I will tie flies with cold fingers. I will tie them in the rain. I will make casts that fall brilliantly short. Rain will drip from the brim of my baseball hat and from pine boughs. The sky a crowded gray. I will abandon frustration and anger for the humility that a broken leader teaches. I will sit on boulders larger than imagination and simply listen. I will not interrupt. Morning chill and possibility. Evening hush and perspective. Heaven is still. Solitude will remind me of the beauty of my wife, the pure music of my children. I will finally be awake. I’m going to Oregon and I’m going fishing.