My new eight-weight reel worked better than I thought, but after a while, I sat, feet in the water, wet to my waist and watched the rain interrupt the hypnotic triangles of the current.
I like fishing in the rain, it feels real. Well, unless it’s windy, then it’s real annoying.
But it was calm and cool, and quiet. I watched the line point in the general vicinity of a red egg-pattern I couldn’t see, and fish didn’t want, from the muddy shore.
I had spent the first couple hours wet-wading within range of sure-fire trout locations, now it was time to be still, relax and shift into neutral — the type of fishing that goes well with pink slips, class shuffling, deployments and restarts.
When the worst vulgarity six dudes can conjure up while fishing is, “next year”, there is definitely something amiss, and I was exhausted enough to sit down on the job.
Next year, my brother will be a couple months in to a three year stint in Guam, making this summer the last time we will all be in Alaska together before my folks retire. Next year some of my friends might not be Lancers.
There were enough of us on the Russian River during the weekend “man-cation” to make departmental decisions; 100-percent attendance of the male full-timers.
It was supposed to be the birthday trip to fish the Russian River, but with half of the department receiving pink slips, it became a weekend from the reality that our department meetings away from school could be ending, right as they were getting good.
The dad of the group (29 according to the age test) and USC-Bob might be back, but elsewhere in the district, and ACL will probably only be around when a sub is needed.
The rest of us tip-toed around any topic related to the uncertain future and we were fortunately supplied with many distractions.
Todd’s dead Suburban helped, so did sending the dude with no ACL (hence the nickname) out to run down cars and ask for jumper cables. There were, of course, 4,000 jokes about flatulence and sporting references as would be expected, but the real therapy for me happened at the river.
As usual, the water itself helped but I found the most solace in the rain.
I like the sight of slight imperfection flailing in the magnitude of a constant flow of rain and melted snow so grand it simultaneously supplies home, and hobby. I’m tiny in comparison to the bigger order of things, and regardless of what I think or feel, the river keeps flowing and weather still happens, but I can still be happy.
Looking down river at my buddies casting trick-flies at fish, knowing we ventured here together under the guise of my birthday, but all received the gift of relaxation amid uncertainty is all I could want.
Forget booze and babes, buddies are what really matter when life rains.
After all, next year might not come. If it does, it’s frequently different than we plan.
I like fishing in the rain, it feels real. Well, unless it’s windy, then it’s real annoying.
But it was calm and cool, and quiet. I watched the line point in the general vicinity of a red egg-pattern I couldn’t see, and fish didn’t want, from the muddy shore.
I had spent the first couple hours wet-wading within range of sure-fire trout locations, now it was time to be still, relax and shift into neutral — the type of fishing that goes well with pink slips, class shuffling, deployments and restarts.
When the worst vulgarity six dudes can conjure up while fishing is, “next year”, there is definitely something amiss, and I was exhausted enough to sit down on the job.
Next year, my brother will be a couple months in to a three year stint in Guam, making this summer the last time we will all be in Alaska together before my folks retire. Next year some of my friends might not be Lancers.
There were enough of us on the Russian River during the weekend “man-cation” to make departmental decisions; 100-percent attendance of the male full-timers.
It was supposed to be the birthday trip to fish the Russian River, but with half of the department receiving pink slips, it became a weekend from the reality that our department meetings away from school could be ending, right as they were getting good.
The dad of the group (29 according to the age test) and USC-Bob might be back, but elsewhere in the district, and ACL will probably only be around when a sub is needed.
The rest of us tip-toed around any topic related to the uncertain future and we were fortunately supplied with many distractions.
Todd’s dead Suburban helped, so did sending the dude with no ACL (hence the nickname) out to run down cars and ask for jumper cables. There were, of course, 4,000 jokes about flatulence and sporting references as would be expected, but the real therapy for me happened at the river.
As usual, the water itself helped but I found the most solace in the rain.
I like the sight of slight imperfection flailing in the magnitude of a constant flow of rain and melted snow so grand it simultaneously supplies home, and hobby. I’m tiny in comparison to the bigger order of things, and regardless of what I think or feel, the river keeps flowing and weather still happens, but I can still be happy.
Looking down river at my buddies casting trick-flies at fish, knowing we ventured here together under the guise of my birthday, but all received the gift of relaxation amid uncertainty is all I could want.
Forget booze and babes, buddies are what really matter when life rains.
After all, next year might not come. If it does, it’s frequently different than we plan.
To contact Jeff Lund, e-mail aklund21@gmail.com.
