People make connections with the strangest things. But they’re real.
The streamsides of Southeast Minnesota will never match the stone-floored western rivers of my youth. But they make the connection.
The two times I most strongly remember my dad working the fly rod were in Colorado and the Black Hills. In South Dakota we were catching suckers all day long with not a trout in sight. We were in a farmer’s field with cows around, land that our fishing friend had used since he was a kid.
In the Rockies we pulled to the side of the road to fish, which can be done there, and watched the air-clear water rush through tall reeds with Rainbows darting in and out. My dad took the Shakespeare and left me with a cheap Martin and a worm on the end. We still caught fish.
There was nothing as fresh as that Colorado stream. It was clean like the memory I have of it now every time I look outside and wonder how soon tippet will touch riffle.
Days like this slip the promise in my mind that it will be soon.
