Big Magic

We drove up the mountain road toward the clouds, their low-slung bellies misting the cracked windshield of my truck.  Overcast and perfectly drizzly spring days aren’t exactly abundant in the high desert, so it’s best to pick up that phone call from the universe.  I did my best to focus on the slithering yellow lines ahead, but my eyes and mind drifted to the rearview mirror which framed the full cheeks of my 6-month-old daughter.  We were on the verge of big magic, and I knew it. We had gone through the growing pains associated with taking a small child fishing.  Tailgate beers were replaced by bottles, diapers, and doll-sized layers of clothing that took the place of an extra fly box. We had hit our stride and were landing fish with as much authority as you can with a child in your back.  My eyes watered.  The radio’s low volume matched the whizzing of my tires over the wet asphalt.  Four more minutes to the exit.  

I hit the turn-out, waving to an old friend who was waiting there for us.  I had made a habit of putting my daughter in her pack and then on the tailgate to ensure she was part of the ordeal. Even the most rote tasks are new for a kid.  Waders, boots, rigging up, and tailgate jokes with a friend are all part of an indoctrination into this thing so dear to me. It was important she be witness to the ritual.  

The river was unseasonably swollen for May, and I loved that. Big water, falling mercury, and perfect lighting make the best company.  Changes in flows and weather can make even the most familiar stretch of water seem new and unexplored.  Nothing captures the power of possibility like a plump river, its depth and structure unknown. 

 We walked upriver to the singular spot where a crossing was possible. I picked up a perfect piece of lodgepole that had been there waiting for me, an extra means to mitigate the chance of going for an unintentional swim with an infant on my back.  Easy and steady we slid across the rocky riverbed with the clear water lurching at my legs.  

The fishing from the grassy cutbank was as good as I expected, its edge dropping sharply into a boulder dotted trough.  Big rainbows, one after another, willingly ate a plain nymph composed of only two colors of thread and a tungsten bead. My brother and I had dubbed it “The Champion of the World” for its ability to conjure fish anywhere we traveled as well as a nod to a pillar of our youth, Roald Dahl. I fished with intent and batted a thousand. My friend documented much of the event knowing what was unfolding.  My daughter looked at each fish, attempting to access words she didn’t yet possess, eyes big and chin chattering. She cycled through being content, joyous, and befuddled through the viewing window of her second-hand Kelty saddle.   

It was time to move on from this section of the river as we had thoroughly knocked on the proverbial door of its residents.  I walked up into a skinny spot ahead of where the riverbed plunged down like rollercoaster tracks into the run we had been working.  I cannonballed my fly just ahead of the downstream transition so that it could attain depth, skip off the shelf, and change directions upward as the leader went tight.  Next drift when that fly changed direction, making its mimicked attempt for the surface I felt a big, heavy, surging grab.  

Brown trout.  I turned my rod upstream while backing up to the bank.   This fish hung on the bottom, its movement slower, stronger, full of great intention. This was a stark contrast from the explosive rodeo displayed by the rainbows hooked earlier.  The deep headshakes vibrated up the burnished cork of my fly rod, tapping out the Morse code for big brown trout.  

I steered the fish as best I could, but with my copilot on my back, my movement was limited. The best choice to stand and deliver where I was.  Many large browns in this river system have seen a net more than once and this fish was no different, pulling any time I went for the net.  Well-versed in landing fish with my daughter on my back, hours of practice in the art of remaining perfectly upright to avoid any chance of an unintentional yard sale. 

I noticed the silty cloud I had stirred near the bank and had one hell of an idea. Slowly walking backward downriver, I took a few steps and steered the brown above me into the cloud, positioning my net behind him.  He nosed the bank and turned around and surged back for the middle of the river, straight into my net.  It was a singularly spectacular piece of fishing from presentation to net, the best I have known. And my daughter perched on my back during my finest hour.

In the picture, I like to think my kid has a look of disbelief being a front-row witness to what had just transpired.  We snapped a few pictures before calling it a day, sauntering back across the river before dark.  This story, so indelibly written to my being, it would be safe if I ever forget it, my mind has gone.  

I think about that immaculate day while driving out to work a pair of young dogs before we head North for our first trip of the season. My tire skips across a wet pothole, letting out a flash of water behind me.  Today, my rearview mirror is empty. My now 5-year-old daughter, fast asleep in her bed at 6 AM on a Saturday.  I reflect and even mourn the seemingly accelerated passing of time since her birth. I keep my chin up, knowing there is more big magic waiting out there for her, hopefully in the sage and cheatgrass, walking behind a pair of steady dogs.