I recently received this wonderful email from a fishing guide (who shall remain anonymous), and it occurred to me that it might not be such an awful idea to post the article (albeit its similarity to my previous blog).
“Hello FlyGal Company,
I know this is a long shot, but if at all possible, can you please forward this personally to April? It’s kind of a big deal, since she indirectly helped save my life and career.
April,
My name is ***; I am a Pacific Northwest Fishing Guide. Last season, I found myself burnt out, beat up and holding on by a thread with serving people out on the water. In fact, I put my rods in the closet, closed my doors for Winter Steelheading and was about ready to chop up my Guide License.
I found myself feasting upon an article in a Fly Fishing Magazine titled something along the lines of “Without change, there is no growth.” Subsequent to finding myself in a puddle of tears I picked myself off of the ground and lifted my chest high; it was time to reinvent and get back out there.
Your article (I had no idea who you were) was pivotal in my guiding career and my life path; thank you for sharing the transparency of your heart and truth with the angling community. The ripples you create go far, my friend.
My greatest hope is that you’re able to receive the accolades and words, from the seeds you’ve sown; thank you for being such a badass, and having the courage to follow your dreams and live by your convictions and the leading of your heart, my friend. May the road rise up to meet you, and may the sun always shine upon your face.
Rock to rock. Cast by cast.
Anonymous “
As previously printed in Fly Fusion
“Without change there cannot be growth”….I looked in the mirror; foaming white toothpaste biting at my tongue and threatening to spill its peppermint lava over my protruding lip and the toothbrush that brushed inside it.
I said it to myself again, this time locking eyes with my reflection as I acknowledged the epiphany that had just presented itself to me beneath the bathrooms’ vanity… without change there cannot be growth.
Expelling the minty froth, I stood from my slouched meeting with the porcelain basin and paused ever so slightly as the words sunk into my core. For it was just twelve months ago that I had stood in this exact spot on the worn floor of the old river house; gazing into the chipped and stained sink, striving to understand why the passion that had once driven my quest for steelhead was no longer rooted deep in my soul.
***
At the time, I assumed that the sub-zero weather and threat of early mornings were what lessened my excitement… I had assumed. But as the mornings pushed later and the temperatures rose, my ambition to rise alongside it fell and I pondered with exasperation why I no longer possessed the need to cure my fishing obsession with ten hour days on the water or determination to fish until my fingers frosted and ached like ten hammered-on little popsicles.
Jeremy Koreski photo.
There was a time when a season opening would throw cancellations into my agenda; a lost hour of daylight would plague me with “what if’s”, and an opportunity to talk steelhead never escaped me.
Outcomes of a ‘sick week’ at work during the waitressing days – I had a fever alright : a steelhead bug.
Perhaps, desperate to remind myself that these fish were the embodiment of something that I loved and related to, I sought adventure in their lairs and authenticity in myself as an angler who tracked their migration and journeyed with them… they were all I had.
Just love. Steve Morrow photo.
As the years passed, wrinkles graced both the pages of time and the edges of my young eyes… exuberant folly mellowed into relaxed sensibility, maturing my enthusiasm and encompassing it with a sense of melancholy.
I couldn’t understand the changes occurring within me. As quickly as I had once followed the migrating species to their tributaries, I found my pace slowing until only the faintest of outlined tails could be seen in the distance; still encouraging me to chase yet far enough away for me to take my time getting there.
Adrienne Comeau photo.
It was a disheartening period of confusion and soul searching. Cold months began to call me to tropical destinations, flats fishing replacing the ice filled gaps of my fly rod guides. First light opportunities were replaced by the comfort of a warm duvet, and hot cups of coffee lured me in when the midday rain pierced my skin.
As a steelhead guide who spends the better part of six months a year on the water with few (if any) days off in between, I inevitably pondered if it was my job that was slowing killing my desire to spend all my time fishing.
It was a confusing contemplation… I loved my job and my days off called me to the river. However, when I arrived to my beckoning mistress, I was more content to nestle in her nurturing bosom than to passionately indulge in her waters. Naps on fallen trees, wandering and explorative ventures to waterfalls and canyon treasures, playful sand wrestling with my loving pup, sighting laying fish and being content to simply watch them… what had happened to the girl who couldn’t stand the thought of not having her fly in the water?
So as my mind pulled at my soul, I fought it to the river and forced myself through the grey. The gravel crunched under my boots and the breeze kissed my cheeks; the first cast was always exciting, the familiar sound of line off my reel cheering the silence like a freshly cracked beer on a hot summer’s day.
Try as I might and delight as I did, always near the six hour mark my mind began to wander or my interest piqued elsewhere. Cast, swing, step…did I send that email? Cast, swing, step…I would love to have a garden one day… Cast, swing, step…I wonder if a tarpon would take this fly? There were still some days of silent concentration, but they were getting fewer and further in between.
As the floorboards creaked beneath my feet, the words replayed in my mind, begging to be deciphered. Change… growth. I had certainly changed. It would be rather alarming if I hadn’t. During the transition from teenager to woman, there were few things about me that remained the same and I was as thankful for that as most young people tend to be over time.
But amidst maturation, self-awareness and humility, there was one unaltered constant that had remained strong within me; an irony unveiled as I stared in the mirror, it was the steelhead that haunted me so.
***
As the toothpaste in the sink vanished down the drain, so did the cloud of uncertainty that had tormented me all these months. The confusion was gone, replaced by clarity and understanding… It wasn’t my passion for steelhead that had transformed… it was just that my methodologies had!
My time on the water wasn’t limited like it was back when I first started; binge fishing between waitressing shifts no longer inhibited me, and my determination to prove to myself that I could not be conquered by exhaustion, elements or speculation no longer drove me to the river. I no longer had to spend half the day repairing collapsed loops or walking out careless snags, my efficiency had doubled with the expansion of my knowledge and upon stripping away all the aforementioned, my six hour days on the water were as productive as the ten hour ones.
I had grown but it had come at the hands of change.
Thankfully, there are still days of summer steelheading when ten hours is not nearly long enough and weeks where all I crave is the push of the river on my legs… there are still nights I can’t sleep from excitement and misty mornings that ignite stomach flutters…
I have come to terms with the lost girl who looked longingly to remnants of her past. I hadn’t fallen out of love with the fish that for so long had owned my heart; I had simply outgrown the girl who didn’t know what true love was. Unconditional and honest, I had developed a comfortable relationship with them that consisted of so much more than regular indulgence or avidity…
We had grown together into a loyal and committed partnership; one that could not have existed without the inevitable certainty of change.
~April
