I remember being excited to be a part of nature. My family decided to move to Wyoming where my father got a job as a pastor in the small town of Greybull. Before the move, some of the church members sent me some books on the topic of Wyoming. All of them were books about the indigenous animals. I found quickly that Wyoming was nothing like I had imagined. Much like the residents of Southern California rarely visit the Pacific Ocean; Wyomingites rarely took notice of the wildlife unless hunting.
Throughout my school years, I spent some time exploring the wilderness surrounding our small town. Usually alone, I would let my curiosity lead me over the vast expanses near my house. I longed to explore the nearby mountains, but aside from feet and a bike, I lacked the transportation to get there. I often found myself within a half day’s walk of home and alone with my adventurous spirit.
Mark was a man in his late twenties from California with unremarkable features and a black Jeep. I was about 14, just on the cusp of driving but starting to submit to the disinterested ways of the locals. Mark visited our church in Greybull and after church one summer day, approached me and asked if I would like to join him on a fishing trip. I was taken aback at his apparent disregard of the adult-child social guidelines but I received permission from my parents and accepted his invitation.
We boarded his uncovered jeep and departed the church parking lot. “I’ve wanted to find some good fishing spots on the mountain,” confessed Mark, his anticipation nearly boiling over. “I’m hoping you can help point me in the right direction.” I was flattered that this man was so excited to seek the advice of me, a lowly fourteen year old boy with little fishing experience and even less confidence. “I’m not sure I can help.” I said nervously. “You know where there’s water, a lake or a river or something?” Mark asked. “Well sure, but…” “Then you can help!” Interrupted Mark with confidence. “I’ll need to go by my house to get my fishing equipment.” Mark looked at me and then reached behind my seat to lift a handful of fishing poles. “I’ve got plenty of equipment.” he said, “You can just use mine.” I nodded in agreement and we continued down the highway in silence.
The Big Horn Mountains make their presence first known when you cross the Shell Creek Bridge and enter a labyrinthine canyon. Mark and I approached the canyon in his Jeep and I told him about a fishing spot just under the bridge. He ignored the comment and continued up the canyon. As we twisted and climbed the steep canyon roads, I would point out spots that I’d fished but we just kept driving.
Mark slowed the jeep at the point where the road and creek go their separate ways. “How’s the fishing up there?” He asked, pointing at two muddy tire tracks continuing upstream. “I don’t know. I’ve never been up that way.” I replied. “Well then, that’s where we’re going!” Mark declared excitedly, gearing his jeep into four-wheel drive. Before I could voice the need for caution, we were bouncing down the tire tracks, flinging mud into the back of Mark’s Jeep and nearly everywhere else. We travelled slowly and sloppily for what seemed like hours before Mark stopped the Jeep. He looked at me and asked, “Do you know where we are?” “I have no idea.” I confessed. “Perfect!” Exclaimed Mark, “Let’s fish!”
We pulled out all of the fishing equipment and walked another mile upstream before I noticed the fishing poles we were carrying. I’d done my fair share of lake, stream and pond fishing, but I’d never been fly-fishing before. I confessed my ignorance to Mark, but he assured me that I would be a great fly fisher and he would help me out.
We sat on a rock and Mark showed me how to attach the fly to the fishing line. We both pounced rock-to-rock toward the center of the frigid creek. I watched as Mark flicked his wrist causing the fly to whip back and forth on the end of the line, before landing serenely on the water.
Mark looked at me and, so as to not startle the fish, whispered; “Now you try.” And try I did. I attempted to imitate Mark’s movements, but mine seemed more violent. Mark motioned for me to stop trying and came closer to whisper, “Don’t just throw the fly into the water. You need to believe you are the fly. You need to make yourself look as delicious as possible to those fish. You need to think like a fish and a fly and a fisherman all at the same time.” I was reminded of the cliché kung-fu movies I had seen before. “You cannot break the board if you are not one with the board.” They would say. Mark’s idea struck me as somewhat silly, but I figured I would try it. I reeled my fly back in, pulled out some line and again violently shook the pole and slammed the fly into the water. “Try again.” Said Mark, “And try to relax, we’re here to have fun not to be perfect.” Again, I thought the remark was slightly odd, but I tried again. This time the fishing line waived through the air with a graceful curve, the pole flexed to and fro with a flux in step with the line, and the fly plopped delicately on the water. Almost immediately, there was a tug on the line. I waited… another tug. I waited again, this time returning the tug of my submersed opponent. I reeled the line in to find a tiny two-inch fish on the end. Mark caught the look of disappointment on my face and started to laugh. “Well at least you caught one, and that was a really good cast.” He chuckled, “See, I told you you’d have no problem picking it up.” We threw the fish back.
We fished the rest of the day without catching a single fish. I was disappointed but Mark pointed out that we had a great day regardless of our catch.
Mark and I went fly fishing several more times before he left Greybull, though we never caught any more fish. Throughout our fishing together, we both got to explore new territory, interact with nature, and try new things. I learned to fly fish, but more importantly, I learned how to relax and enjoy the journey and then accept the end of that journey, be it "failure" or "success." I learned that friendship doesn’t necessarily have boundaries, age or otherwise. I learned to never abandon my adventurous spirit. I learned how to appreciate and view my surroundings from a new perspective. I learned to think like a fly and a fish and a fisherman at the same time.
Throughout my school years, I spent some time exploring the wilderness surrounding our small town. Usually alone, I would let my curiosity lead me over the vast expanses near my house. I longed to explore the nearby mountains, but aside from feet and a bike, I lacked the transportation to get there. I often found myself within a half day’s walk of home and alone with my adventurous spirit.
Mark was a man in his late twenties from California with unremarkable features and a black Jeep. I was about 14, just on the cusp of driving but starting to submit to the disinterested ways of the locals. Mark visited our church in Greybull and after church one summer day, approached me and asked if I would like to join him on a fishing trip. I was taken aback at his apparent disregard of the adult-child social guidelines but I received permission from my parents and accepted his invitation.
We boarded his uncovered jeep and departed the church parking lot. “I’ve wanted to find some good fishing spots on the mountain,” confessed Mark, his anticipation nearly boiling over. “I’m hoping you can help point me in the right direction.” I was flattered that this man was so excited to seek the advice of me, a lowly fourteen year old boy with little fishing experience and even less confidence. “I’m not sure I can help.” I said nervously. “You know where there’s water, a lake or a river or something?” Mark asked. “Well sure, but…” “Then you can help!” Interrupted Mark with confidence. “I’ll need to go by my house to get my fishing equipment.” Mark looked at me and then reached behind my seat to lift a handful of fishing poles. “I’ve got plenty of equipment.” he said, “You can just use mine.” I nodded in agreement and we continued down the highway in silence.
The Big Horn Mountains make their presence first known when you cross the Shell Creek Bridge and enter a labyrinthine canyon. Mark and I approached the canyon in his Jeep and I told him about a fishing spot just under the bridge. He ignored the comment and continued up the canyon. As we twisted and climbed the steep canyon roads, I would point out spots that I’d fished but we just kept driving.
Mark slowed the jeep at the point where the road and creek go their separate ways. “How’s the fishing up there?” He asked, pointing at two muddy tire tracks continuing upstream. “I don’t know. I’ve never been up that way.” I replied. “Well then, that’s where we’re going!” Mark declared excitedly, gearing his jeep into four-wheel drive. Before I could voice the need for caution, we were bouncing down the tire tracks, flinging mud into the back of Mark’s Jeep and nearly everywhere else. We travelled slowly and sloppily for what seemed like hours before Mark stopped the Jeep. He looked at me and asked, “Do you know where we are?” “I have no idea.” I confessed. “Perfect!” Exclaimed Mark, “Let’s fish!”
We pulled out all of the fishing equipment and walked another mile upstream before I noticed the fishing poles we were carrying. I’d done my fair share of lake, stream and pond fishing, but I’d never been fly-fishing before. I confessed my ignorance to Mark, but he assured me that I would be a great fly fisher and he would help me out.
We sat on a rock and Mark showed me how to attach the fly to the fishing line. We both pounced rock-to-rock toward the center of the frigid creek. I watched as Mark flicked his wrist causing the fly to whip back and forth on the end of the line, before landing serenely on the water.
Mark looked at me and, so as to not startle the fish, whispered; “Now you try.” And try I did. I attempted to imitate Mark’s movements, but mine seemed more violent. Mark motioned for me to stop trying and came closer to whisper, “Don’t just throw the fly into the water. You need to believe you are the fly. You need to make yourself look as delicious as possible to those fish. You need to think like a fish and a fly and a fisherman all at the same time.” I was reminded of the cliché kung-fu movies I had seen before. “You cannot break the board if you are not one with the board.” They would say. Mark’s idea struck me as somewhat silly, but I figured I would try it. I reeled my fly back in, pulled out some line and again violently shook the pole and slammed the fly into the water. “Try again.” Said Mark, “And try to relax, we’re here to have fun not to be perfect.” Again, I thought the remark was slightly odd, but I tried again. This time the fishing line waived through the air with a graceful curve, the pole flexed to and fro with a flux in step with the line, and the fly plopped delicately on the water. Almost immediately, there was a tug on the line. I waited… another tug. I waited again, this time returning the tug of my submersed opponent. I reeled the line in to find a tiny two-inch fish on the end. Mark caught the look of disappointment on my face and started to laugh. “Well at least you caught one, and that was a really good cast.” He chuckled, “See, I told you you’d have no problem picking it up.” We threw the fish back.
We fished the rest of the day without catching a single fish. I was disappointed but Mark pointed out that we had a great day regardless of our catch.
Mark and I went fly fishing several more times before he left Greybull, though we never caught any more fish. Throughout our fishing together, we both got to explore new territory, interact with nature, and try new things. I learned to fly fish, but more importantly, I learned how to relax and enjoy the journey and then accept the end of that journey, be it "failure" or "success." I learned that friendship doesn’t necessarily have boundaries, age or otherwise. I learned to never abandon my adventurous spirit. I learned how to appreciate and view my surroundings from a new perspective. I learned to think like a fly and a fish and a fisherman at the same time.
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