Standing In The Stream

I had also become enamored with the beauty of a man — it was always a man — standing in a rushing stream about mid-thigh, sunlight winking off the whitewater, casting nearly in slow-motion, over and over again, the long thin line whipping back and forth, catching the light, before barely alighting atop the water.

- Patty Somlo

THERE’S A REASON FOR THE SPECIAL felt-soled boots that fly fishermen wear, I immediately understood. Walking in a fast-moving mountain stream is treacherous. Rivers are filled with rocks, many of them boulder-sized, and they’re generally covered with all manner of slippery slime. This lesson stayed with me long after my attempt to learn to fly - fish .

My husband, Richard, liked to joke that I wanted to learn to fly-fish just so I could buy and wear the olive green outfit. Years before, I had fallen in love with the whole fly-fishing look: the pale olive green overalls, the high waders, and the vest with its myriad zippered pockets. I had also become enamored with the beauty of a man — it was always a man — standing in a rushing stream about mid-thigh, sunlight winking off the whitewater, casting nearly in slow-motion, over and over again, the long thin line whipping back and forth, catching the light, before barely alighting atop the water.

I had also read Norman Maclean’s evocative story, A River Runs Through It, more than once and saw the movie based on the tale several times. Though I easily laid aside the details about the mechanics of fly-fishing contained in Maclean’s story, which made the point that learning to catch a fish is difficult and requires a great deal of practice, patience, and time, I would never forget Maclean’s fervent belief that fly-fishing is an art . . . and akin to a religion.

The spiritual aspects of fly fishing attracted me. But so did the places that a person practices the art. Though I had lived in cities for four decades, I felt most at peace far outside them: in mountains, alongside rivers, and on lakeshores.