March 22, 2012
Doing a thing well is often a waste of time.
There is the small cottonwood behind me that will, when I'm in a hurry, reach out and grab my fly. There are sharp-edged boulders here and there just beneath the surface that offer hidden danger. And there are the fish themselves, notorious for tearing up hundreds of those all of which once sat so proudly, so eloquently in my vise. So what do I do with those? Why, I donate them to the river. A gift, gladly given, from me to my river for providing me with the chance to come here and experience the thrill of luring fish with my flies again and again. And at the end of each day, as I make the short drive home, my thoughts revolve around flies and fish knowing that soon I can sit down again at the vise to create and enjoy.
The truth, as I sit here in the midst of yet another mid-March snowstorm that promises to further delay my eventual return to my river, is this. I without question owe more to the fishing with and tying of flies than anybody I know. I'm pretty sure that if it were not for these passions I have developed I would be either dead, or, at the very least, in a very bad way.
One word. Alcohol.
So I stand happily on the considerable time and money spent; the wisest investment I will ever make. An investment that will continue to pay countless, priceless dividends right up until the end, which I don't see happening any time soon in my immediate future, because tying and fishing with flies is also my fountain of youth.
I am so truly, so wonderfully blessed.