Our family has never been considered “outdoors” people. We did not camp, RV, hike or engage in many of the typical activities that required sleeping, eating or conducting other bodily functions while out in the wild. In fact, my Dad was famous for saying “It took human civilization thousands of years to get indoor plumbing and I have no intention of going back!” He stuck to his pledge his entire life.
I recall one disastrous attempt at joining the cub scouts and when the first overnight camping trip was announced, my membership was soon dropped and I never again returned again to my cub scout pack. Honestly, I did not miss it and in the words of one of my co-workers from a job long past, “If it was never there, would you miss it?” Cogent words, for sure and I did not miss the outdoors at all, until one remarkable August trip in 2004.
I was working as a training director and living in South Texas on North Padre island. No, not the island of spring break lore, the other half of that island, just a causeway away from Corpus Christi, Texas. In fact, Padre Island is a part of Corpus Christi and anyone who has visited the area can attest to its beauty and miles and miles of seashore, as well as thousands and thousands of birds. You might think that this is where the fly fishing story takes place, but you would be wrong. The story takes place thousands of miles north in the Rocky mountains and a retreat our management team took as part of a yearly team-building and group bonding activity.
Our team was fortunate enough to be invited on a five-day trip to the working ranch of a large beer distributor who was also one of the largest vendors that supplied the company I worked for. This distributor provided our company and its stores an unending and widely varied supply of adult beverages. They also owned a very large working ranch in south Texas, and, being a northerner, or Yankee, as I was often called, I often wondered where a Texas rancher would go to get away from it all. My question was forever answered on that trip and the answer is simply that they go to another, even larger ranch in a state far, far away.
Our trip to Colorado took us on buses, cars, airplanes and four-wheelers; to increasingly smaller airports and roads that seemed to shrink at every bend in the road. The final dozen miles were navigated by a trained driver from the ranch who took us through the winding roads, even farther and farther up into the mountains until I could swear we almost touched the sky. At one point we had to pause to allow a herd of elk cross the road. Believe me, if you have ever been that close to a herd of elk, you, too, would let them have the right of way. My father’s words came back to me frequently during that winding trip up to the ranch.
Once we arrived, the ranch, the hospitality, the workers and the food were outstanding. I was assigned, along with two of my co-workers, to a cabin that they told us was typically used by several of the hired hands who were on vacation that week. I was pleased to discover that the entire ranch had indoor plumbing and that both the kitchen of the main house, as well as the ample bar within it, were open 24 hours a day. I was a frequent guest of both. My fears were slowly beginning to subside. And then, the activities for the week were announced.
All that was asked was that whatever activity we chose, we had to stick with it all week. This was due to arrangements that had to be made with the various folks who would lead these events and it seemed reasonable to me at the time. Most of our team chose golf, which I was also going to select, until I discovered that one of my friends was the only person who signed up for fly fishing. Fly fishing required at least two people or the event would have to be cancelled. I never discovered why it needed two, but those were the stated rules. My fishing friend hated golf and I knew that if I did not choose to fly fish, he would have a terrible week. So, with much trepidation, I joined the fly fishing group of two. I could picture my father laughing uncontrollably at that moment.
At 6am the following day, my friend, Ray, and I trudged outside to be greeted by our fly fishing expert. It was reported that she was the foremost expert in Colorado and had been a respected game warden for over 20 years. She met us promptly at the top of the hour and introduced herself. She told us we would have a terrific week and she would provide us all of the supplies we would need. Our only requirement was that we start each day at 6am and we would not return until the sun set at night. She also mentioned that it would be a “catch and release” program, so no fish would be harmed during those days. She also stated that we would go out, rain or shine, no excuses allowed. She then asked us how much experience we had with fly fishing.
Ray responded that he had been fishing all his life. I told her that once my Dad and I went out to the creek and I lost all of our equipment within the first hour trying to learn to cast. I could see the shock fall over her face at that very moment. She recovered quickly however, and told me not to worry, she would treat me as a beginner. I asked her if there was some category that was beneath a beginner, then that would be me. She did not laugh. Ray, on the other hand is most likely still laughing to this day.
We got in her 4 wheeler and drove even further up in the mountains until, at last, we came to a location where a creek emptied up into a somewhat larger body of water, too large to be a pond and not yet big enough to be labeled a lake. All I could think of was the opening scene of the Andy Griffith show. However, I think if I had started whistling that tune, she would have left me there for whatever critters anxiously awaited me. Believe me, I could hear many different creatures while I was out there that week. In fact, as it has been said, the silence was defeaning. I could hear sounds I never knew existed, the birds sounded happier, the wind louder, the insects curiously more active. The creek even made its own sounds as it ran rapidly and determinedly through our area. I could even see, yes see, the fish swimming effortlessly in their stream. I had never seen water that clear. I would also soon discover that I had never experienced water quite that cold. We were the only human beings within miles and yes, the stream was still a part of that ranch. I was truly awed. I began to regret my fishing decision less and less.
Ronnie was not only an expert warden, she was also a very patient teacher. I slowly learned to cast and quickly discovered that it was actually easier for me to learn to fly fish since I was not used to casting for all the other types of fishing. What these types of fishing were, I do not know. I did learn that casting is not all in the wrist and that you need to practice a great deal before you are not a threat to your fellow anglers, trees, bushes and any other living creatures living within your casting area. I also progressed a bit and while I was learning, Ronnie and Ray hauled in trout after trout, releasing each of them, per our agreement. I remained trout-less.
After a lunch that was packed for us by some mysterious person who always had it waiting for us before we left in the morning, it was my turn to go after that elusive first trout. I had seen the numerous fish that my friends had caught and they were truly beautiful. These fish were rainbow trout and they are called this for an obvious reason, their colors are multiple and they are easily identified in the waters once you know what you are seeking. After about 10 lame casting attempts, I hooked my first trout and I too, was forever hooked at that very moment. I reeled him in, with the help of Ronnie of course, released him and received the praise of my teacher. Ray yelled congratulations from across the water. Ronnie left me on my own after my catch and wandered over to Ray to swap fish stories. I soon discovered what those stories really meant and that almost all of them are greatly exaggerated. I am proud of the fact that I was now a member of that fraternity.
As the days went by, I got better and better at casting, caught my share of trout and let each one of them go, one by one. We fished in the rain, the sun, the dark and I swear, in the snow, but then again, I was getting better at my fish stories, too. I fished in waders and something called a “belly boat” which is really nothing more than the simple fact that you are both the fisherman and the boat. I can say, though, that I preferred fishing from the shore. It seemed to me that the fish owned the water and the fishermen owned the shore. I wanted every advantage I could possibly have.
Ray and I started asking Ronnie if we could start the day earlier, so we could fish longer. Ronnie agreed, and our last two days were spent watching the sun rise, complete its slow journey across the heavens and then set slowly at the end of the day. The days seemed to jump by, while at the same time, they also appeared to stand still. I know that sounds strange, but I quietly discovered a unique connection with nature while I was standing out in the water. With no sounds, other than what mother nature supplies us, we seem to become a part of nature ourselves. The three of us rarely spoke during those days; we came together for lunch and the ride to and from the “fishing hole” as I called it. Ronnie did not like the term, but she tolerated it, coming from a Yankee, of course. I think she even smiled once.
I learned many important lessons that week in the wild. I discovered that trying new things can also open your eyes and mind to countless opportunities and discoveries that are just waiting for us around the next bend. I learned patience and the value and beauty of simply doing nothing. I learned that you can predict when the fish will bite, just by understanding weather conditions and paying attention to what you are not hearing. I learned to conquer fears, prejudices, and irrational assumptions that I have held my entire life. Most importantly,however, I learned that human beings and nature are forever linked together in subtle ways I never could have imagined before I waded warily into that stream. I arrived in Colorado as a novice fisherman and left it as someone who now knows that learning truly never ends and that you really can teach an old dog new tricks.
I left that company shortly after my trip and I have not fly fished once since that remarkable week. I do intend to fly fish again one day and I am confident I will be able to pick up right where I left off. Ray and Ronnie taught me a great deal during that special week in the Rockies and I will never forget the sights, sounds and yes, smells of that splendid stream and our mother nature; so far away, yet also, always so very near.