Life Cycles

Just after daybreak, I met Mat at the parking lot near the takeout and jumped in his Tacoma. The cracked windshield, combined with the muddy floormats and the specific smell of chronic wetness, assured any passenger that this truck belonged to a fishing guide. It was perfect.

The drive was short, however, and we arrived at the boat ramp. I tossed my camera bag on the floor of his Hyde drift boat and we shoved off.

A few weeks ago, Mat, a friend and fishing guide, invited me to take the day off from work and join him on a float down the Lower Sacramento River past the famous Sundial Bridge in Redding, California. This was the second float I'd take with him, and by the end of the day, after losing count of how many fish we caught, he would label me an "advanced beginner."

Two ospreys perched near the nest on the tower of the power lines and the silhouettes of swallows circling overhead contrasted against the grey clouds. A low pressure had moved down from Alaska bringing the first early rainstorm of the season. The overcast diffused the sunlight and the river turned to emerald in the shallows. Hatching pale morning duns rested on the rail of the boat.

By fishing guide standards, Mat is a hippie. You won't find cans of Copenhagen or Miller Lite on his boat. Instead, he'll offer you beef jerky and granola bars, and the conversation will quickly turn to art, entomology, and the tragedy of semelparity. At the core of Mat's fishing and teaching is gratitude.

Thankfully, the mechanics of the cast came back easily for me. I had had enough prior instruction from Mat to skip the refresher and just get to fishing. Almost instantly, we hooked up with giant rainbows. It felt like a performance for the onlookers walking across the Sundial Bridge. The controlled drift of the boat through the riffles carried Mat's hand-tied (secret) flies close enough to catch the eyes of the trout. The fluorescent indicator jerked below the surface and I scrambled to follow Mat's direction to "Strip! Strip! Strip!"

The fish fought and the rod bent, straining against my wrist, and once they were in the net, Mat took the brief moment to show me the differences in profiles between the male and female fish. He lit up whenever I pulled in a smaller fish, laughing at his idea that the youngster was trying to prove himself among the grownups, insisting that it was a big fish, too. Then, after commenting on the spots, or the white tips of the fins, or "This one has some cutthroat in him," we released each fish, washing my hands in the chilly Redding water.

A year ago, I never would have guessed I would be here. Fishing, especially fly fishing, was a pastime I didn't have growing up. But luck, or karma, or something else, introduced me to it at a time in my life that would allow fishing to grow organically in me. Maybe it's because I'm older, and fishing requires a maturity that can tolerate solitude and disappointment. Oh, the patience! The Concentration! Maybe it is the sport of it, although I've realized at least ninety percent of the game has to do with the skill of tying the flies, and really, any fish I caught was caught by Mat. If this is what it feels like to be an "advanced beginner," I can only imagine the personal satisfaction of being just one step closer to expert.

As we drifted toward the boat ramp at the takeout, we passed a slow-moving pool of tiny rising fish. Mat guessed they were salmon smolt recently released from the hatchery. Even after a full day on the water, he was eager to teach, and he explained the salmon's life cycle from egg, to alevin, to fry, and so on.

Driving home, the rain poured down. I listened to the Giants baseball game on the radio while the wipers kept the view through the windshield clear to see the semi trucks driving south on I-5. I thought about what it means to live in California and I thought about my kids. I thought about my cousin's cancer and I wondered if Jill and I would go cross-country skiing this season. It's funny what a day like today can make you think about.