We decided to go fishing. The calendar was blocked, and all urgent matters were cleared to open the window for a morning outing.
Sure, there were plenty of items on our to-do list.
There always are.
Thatòòò½ÊÓƵ™s the thing about work, family, education and careers: they require your presence, energy and, of course, time.
But some days, you simply need a mind, body and spirit day to recharge your well-being.
Or at least, that is what I decided to call the day, and it seems a little more robust than òòò½ÊÓƵœGoing Fishingòòò½ÊÓƵ written on the page of my calendar.
The meeting time and place were set, and the targeted species were identified òòò½ÊÓƵ” step one. Step two required rod and tackle preparation.
Easy enough, as we had recently added a three-weight fly rod and a reel spooled with floating fly line, perfect for heading into the mountains in search of native brook trout in the cold, gin-clear mountain streams.
Getting to the stream required a hike on a trail that skirted the stream for several miles.
We were looking for tree-lined pools where the shade from the overhanging canopy kept our shadows off the water and the water protected from the rays of the summer sun.
We hiked until we found, what looked to us, promising waters.
As for the trout, only a well-placed cast with the right fly tied on our ultra-light line would tell the tale.
It didnòòò½ÊÓƵ™t take long to have the question answered.
With a dry fly, dressed with plenty of flotant, allowing it to ride high over the riffles and pour-overs, I was surprised when an aggressive brookie broke the surface attempting to inhale the bug in one massive gulp.
The trout missed the fly and I set the hook on nothing but air.
Knowing that you generally donòòò½ÊÓƵ™t get another chance, I repeated the cast with low expectations.
I have no way of knowing for certain if it was the same trout, and it doesnòòò½ÊÓƵ™t matter anyhow, but I was pleasantly surprised when the splashy rise of a brook trout caused my line to straight and was rewarded with a feisty fight to our net.
The ice was broken.
We were on the board with one target fish.
I wet my hands and quickly returned the fish to its home waters with a smile on my face.
We took turns fishing micro-runs and holes along the creek, and the only rule for the day was, one strike and youòòò½ÊÓƵ™re out, whether you landed a fish or missed the fish with your hookset.
To be honest, it didnòòò½ÊÓƵ™t matter.
The creek was fishing so well, and the trout were so active, that it appeared there would be another chance right around the bend.
And more times than not, there was, making the waiting angleròòò½ÊÓƵ™s time on deck a short affair.
We took turns at bat fishing, with plenty of ribbing and commentary about the angleròòò½ÊÓƵ™s skills or lack of, and finished out the day way up the creek from our parked truck at the trailhead.
On our way back to the truck, we replayed every hole and laughed and smiled at the fish we caught, but mainly focused on the ones we missed.
The walk back was as entertaining as the fishing, and we ended the day at the tailgate talking and enjoying some much-needed nutrition after our long hike in and out.
Our legs were tired, and our lungs were full of fresh mountain air.
We were happy simply to be part of the beautiful outdoor day.
That is exactly what we needed.
I am well.
A great day of fishing tends to do that.