We had an epiphany. Fly fishing is a pain in the ass. Yes, after nearly seven years of catch-and-release fly fishing, we both admitted that the excessive gear, special knots, and matching the hatch is getting too fiddly for both of us. Both of us get a twinge of guilt when we actually catch a fish, even though we practice zero limit catch and release angling with single barb-less hooks.
And look at all the crap we loaded in our car just for fly fishing -- rod cases, reels, tackle bags, float tubes, wading boots and wading gear.
True, there is a zone one can find fly fishing in a mountain freestone stream -- total peace and a relaxed concentration -- but these moments are few and far between. That's the romantic notion of fly fishing. You always want to be in that place and you can feel the subtle pressure to be there when you're not. Sort of like the holiday season and the subtle pressure (internal or external) to have the perfect holiday. Phooey.
We stopped fishing and had lunch by the stream. I made Andrew Goldsworthy
-like streamside art from the rocks and branches while my husband sat on his chair taking in the beauty. We drove further up to Williams Creek Reservoir, possibly the most beautiful place on the planet, and read and relaxed, taking in the place.
Later that evening, we had a wonderful dinner at the Ole Miner's Steak House, holding hands and enjoying each other's company.
An evangelical preacher and his wife sat near us and we listened to them talking about their two-month tour and how he saved 250 souls in Indiana. The man was tall and lanky with a deep voice -- Bill Walton's doppelganger. The waitress thanked him for his books and his ministry.
He said how good it was to be back and how he was going to spend time on God's mountains with The Father before traveling again. I wonder about all that faith. When we left the restaurant, we located the Cadillac Escalade SUV with the Jesus vanity plates.
Colorado is an interesting place.