~ You know the feeling. That feeling when the perfect fishing hole isn’t right in front of you, but 100 yards upstream across a river that ‘appears’ not to be wadable. “That looks good right up there.” I said. “I wouldn’t cross here, that’s deep enough you’re liable to go swimming” my Dad said.
I had already determined I was going, maybe he knew that already as well, I know I sure did. Maybe he just was being a good friend and wanted to give me a kind reminder, or maybe he was being the kind of good friend/Dad that wanted see me go for a quick swim. Who knows. All I know is things like that are all apart of what makes fly fishing like nothing else is the world.
As my Dad laughed and shook his head, I proceeded to unbuckle the shoulder straps on my waders at the waist and pull them up over my shoulders. I think his laughter was his stance that adjusting my waders would only mean they were about to fill up with more water.
I got about 10 yards out and knew it could get a little dicey, but knew the River well enough (or thought I did) that I had it made.
We’re now 20 yards out. You know the feeling. A feeling you get in life all the time, there’s always that point of no return. Shit or get off the pot time, if you will. I tend to be an all gas no brakes kinda guy, so there was no turning back. Plus there’s the added mindset of a teenager wanting to prove his father wrong.
One step forward….and I learned a lesson for the hundredth time over about the power of water. At this point, I’m walk/running at a 45 degree angle down stream with the current, shoulder deep, with my rod in the air. A few more walk/run steps barely touching the bottom and I commit to a full swim with my left hand while holding my rod in the air.
I eventually made it across. Every box of flies I had were soaked. My baseball cap cooled off the back of head, water running down my neck. Perfect for a hot summer day.
I proceeded to walk the 150 yards up stream to the hole I had eyed. The river had broke off on a natural island and I stripped down to the nothing but my shorts and wading shoes. Fished that hole hard, working my way up stream for an hour or so. Nothing. Not one bite.
I cranked my reel up emphatically, like you do when you know you’re done fishing, found an easier spot to cross upstream and headed back to meet up with my Dad.
I get back to him with a smirk, that smirk folks get right before they’re gonna start laughing their ass off. “I made it across” I said. “Yeah you sure did” said my Dad bursting into laughter. “You catch anything?” “Not a thing,” I replied. “You?” That smirk came over his face again, “a few…” he replied, which meant he’d done well. Par for the course for most of our fishing trips.
You can’t beat experience, but I crossed the Ronde that day, and I’m glad I did. Life is meant to be lived so we have stories like this to tell and I’ll be damned if I walk through life without looking to cross every Ronde out there. ~
Living the Dream 