The Drift: The First Cutthroat

I’m not sure how long I’ve gone without fishing over the past 15 years. I’m sure there were cold snaps, blizzards, or broken-down vehicles that kept me off the water for a week at a time, but never two weeks. I have an obsessive personality, and fly fishing is the sort of sport that caters to obsessive types, especially when you spend most of your life living 15 minutes from a decent trout stream. 

I think it’s safe to say, however, that my recent two-week hiatus was certainly the longest I’ve stayed away from the water since right after high school. And if you’re going to miss out on the best of pre-runoff fishing, it’s comforting—in an odd way—to have a reason other than a rough stretch at work. Even though that’s completely valid, I know I always had that voice at the back of my mind saying you could get a different job, with better hours, and spend more time fishing whenever work got in the way. 

Staying Away

But my recent hiatus was for one of the reasons that you never want to miss anything. I had to leave Wyoming about a month ago for a work trip in Utah—work being filming a  fishing trip to some alpine lakes. At the last moment, I decided to bring my 7-month-pregnant wife, and our two dogs. I wasn’t keen on the idea of leaving my wife home alone for over a week while I was out of cell service, especially with how rough her pregnancy had been. She stayed with her parents while I went off to the mountains. 

The trip went well enough. We caught fish, had a few frustrating moments, and got rained on, so I reckon the video we filmed will come together just fine. But we’re still in Utah, living in my in-laws’ basement, because our daughter decided to make her appearance six weeks early. 

Of course, fishing wasn’t the first thing on my mind when we ended up in the NICU. The desire to get on the water didn’t really hit me until three days after my daughter was born, when I had to road trip back home to Wyoming to pack enough for a six-week stay out-of-state. My dad and I drove by one of my favorite rivers, just an hour from my house, right during golden hour. The angle of the sun and the clean mountain air combined to show off the best the river has to offer, with every run glittering, crystal-clear, and surprisingly devoid of anglers. I’ve never been so tempted to pull over and fish, but I had a job to do and wanted to get back to my wife and daughter as soon as possible. 

Once things settled down enough, and I was back in Utah, I floated the idea past my wife. We’d been living in the hospital, and we were both at the end of our ropes. And as much as we wished it was different, there wasn’t anything we could do for our daughter. She was stable and making progress, but at six weeks premature, what she needed most was time. 

My wife enthusiastically told me to go fishing. I think she could tell, better than I could, how much I needed a day away from the beeping, the charts, the humdrum of a hospital that never lets its patients or visitors truly rest. 

On the Water

So, last Thursday, I headed out with two friends to a remote little creek that’s never treated me well, but is one of the few options to fish when runoff is in full swing elsewhere. 

We made it to the creek around 2 p.m., and the fishing was predictably slow. I saw a few mayflies come off, but a proper hatch never materialized. I was fishing almost on autopilot, not really picking the holes apart, just letting my mind wander while I soaked in the quiet that you only experience on a river. 

I’d run through a half-dozen good holes with nothing to show for it when I got my rig stuck in an overhanging tree for the third time. I’d fished the hole thoroughly, so I didn’t think twice about wading in, grabbing my flies, and heading upriver. But I let my flies hang down in the current below me as I looked for my next cast, and they swung just a bit in the current. That was just enough action to prompt a fish to eat the Squirmy Worm, which I can honestly say isn’t a fly I’ve fished on the swing before. 

The first fish I caught as a dad was a cutthroat, which is poetic since they’re my favorite trout. They’re not as big as a rainbow, or mean like browns, but happy-go-lucky in the way dogs are. Just like dogs, though, cutthroat have enough discernment that the big ones are fairly tough to catch. 

This wasn’t a big cutthroat, but it still felt important. It felt like the river was telling me that, no matter how long my absence might be in the future, fishing will be a constant I can depend on.