Fish Stories

Fish Camp 2020

The day dawned cloudy. I was up before everyone else, enjoying a cup of coffee with the hummingbirds. The sunrise was pink and purple through the clouds. I’m sure the chipmunks appreciated the flurry of trips from the car to the house and house to the car. I see them doing the same, darting here and there, except they are much quicker. We all meet up at the fly shop and get waders, souvenirs and a snack for the drive to the lakes. The Expedition, aptly named, safely snakes us up Kenosha Pass. We look for moose and catch up on each other’s lives. This is a major part of Women’s Fish Camp. The sharing parts of your story that have been tucked away for exploring at another moment when there is more time. In the sacred sharing spaces women create. In the car, around the table, on a stream.

We arrive at the lakes and all pile out of the cars, the buzzing of mosquitoes and our excitement all around us. We pull on waders and extra layers as the clouds remain and we are now at 10,000 feet. The morning was slow going while we all got our bearings, learned about how much line to throw out and tried to not hit the fish on the head with the flies. The lake was what I think of when someone says the water is crystal clear. It looked like an aquarium. We learned more about fish behavior as we could now see them come up to check out our flies and how they ate them. We pulled a few out of their mouths with excitement before we learned to skip a beat before setting the hook.

After lunch was when the real fun started. It seemed like every time you threw the line out there, a fish ate it! They were tiny little brook trout that had the gorgeous circles of a brown, and nice red bellies with white outlining their fins. A few of us, who aspire to be independent fisherwomen, removed the hooks ourselves. It’s incredibly fun to hook, land and release a fish all by yourself. Fun and confidence building. Also a significant part of Women’s Fish Camp. This tribe is a confident bunch already but it is wholly satisfying when you take on something new and enjoy it enough to become proficient. And though I would hardly call myself proficient at fly fishing, each time I go out, I feel like I learn a new fact, and master some knot, or maybe a cast. (“a” cast, not castING. Let’s not get crazy.)

We fished and fished and fished that afternoon. I stopped counting…a situation I have never experienced before! Our newest and youngest fisherwoman caught 17. The guides had a blast catching fish with this 11 year old bundle of determination. In fact, what our guide said was, “days like this are why we are guides.” Fostering joy, love of a sport and the outdoors definitely seems like a job satisfaction indicator. What I also hope the next generation sees is the power of community. And community of women. There is nothing that can’t be made better by your besties and chips and salsa.

We all gathered around the table that night in a tired, comfortable way. The talk turned to life, big and little events, love, and how we make our way in this world. Then the quiet of night settled over each of us, alone in our thoughts until sleep pulls up the blankets. It’s my favorite kind of night where the day was filled with activity, the evening filled with sharing and the night full of anticipation for tomorrow.

And tomorrow came early! Sleepy fisherwomen piled in the cars again to head to the river and to another day of discovery. Flows are low right now as we wait for the reservoir to fill before they release the excess. The fish are holding in places we don’t normally look for them…like right under our feet when we slowly wade into the magic of running waters. I catch one on my second cast. This often happens. I’m paying attention early, before the water, the birds and the trees can distract me from the subtle tug indicating a fish is trying to eat my fly. Our youngest fisherwoman continues with her streak and catches 3 before we break for lunch. The river has invigorated everyone. Even though we are tired and the sun has made us summer drunk, we are eager to get back out before the water gets too warm for us to fish. Not much else happens as the fish are apparently telegraphing warnings of fake, sharp flies to each other. The day ends as we wait for the last two of us to make it back to the cars. True to the magic of fishing, here they came with grins from ear to ear. The last fish of the day was the biggest and caught by a first-timer. The fishing fan club has one more member.

I really couldn’t ask for anything more. Women’s Fish Camp was my dream to introduce women to fly fishing and share the joy of being outdoors while reveling in the power of women in community. I am one of many self-appointed Ambassadors for Women in Fly Fishing, sending diplomats out over 3 states now! When I try to describe how fishing with my girlfriends makes me feel, I cannot come up with any sort of eloquent, succinct sound bite. I would say it feels soulful. It feels like peace. My heart is full, my burdens light. The water carries away discontent. The conversations are like geese preening to better insulate themselves from the cold. I savor these moments, try to store them up to insulate me from the rough patches I will face when I’m doing my best to adult in this world. Fishing adventures are a few of the moments that make up a great life. Thank you to the women who share this great story with me. I cherish you…and those little trouts.

About That Writing…

“So, how’s your book coming? I bet you are getting so much writing done!” An innocent and kind inquiry from many a person who either is simply trying to make conversation or truly wants to know how I’m doing. It’s not coming people. I am not getting so much writing done. The world as we know it is changing minute by minute right now. Mental health experts have given us all permission to have varying degrees of immobility, lack of concentration, anxiety. What if my writing is not pertinent to current events? What if I don’t have anything meaningful to add to the important conversations we are having as a society? It feels like hubris.

But to be honest, writing was a bit of a struggle pre-pandemic, pre-nation-wide social justice awakening, too. This blog is languishing, mocking me. I know (because the all-knowing internet tells me) I need to write SOMETHING or just take it down. But are those really the only two choices? Aren’t we learning the lessons right now that the binary options are not the entirety of our realities? There is endless advice out there for writers struggling to write. And it all boils down to what worked for that particular writer, in that particular circumstance. My truth is, the struggle is part of writing. I am finding my way through it. It becomes part of the story, my story. I certainly spend my share of time reading how other writers write. What time of the day? For how long? What to do if you are stuck? There is an answer for everything on the internet, just ask it. It turns out, those tips are the most helpful for me by identifying things that do NOT work for me. The ‘get up an hour earlier’ crowd, the ‘stay up a couple hours later’ people do not know me. I am neither a lark, nor an owl. I guess I am just regular and really like my sleep. I am no less dedicated to my story because I don’t follow productivity advice.

I have found a head empty of to-dos and worries leaves space for my creativity. And, there is no universe where that condition exists persistently enough to get a book written. So, here we are. I don’t know my answer yet. I just keep coming to this keyboard and keep thinking and writing. One sentence at a time. Eventually, my story will flow from my heart to the pages. It may not have anything to do with the world as we are knowing it now. But that is another great thing about stories. They take you out of your reality and into another one; they help us view the world through a different perspective for a minute. Stories are how we make sense of our experiences, our lives. Stories help us know one another, and ourselves, better. Even if it is one sentence at a time.