The Guide

I stand silently at the water’s edge. All around there is the deep blue stillness that comes with first light.

The green water, quietly whisking over shallow rock, pulls away my overcoat of anxiety and stress, leaving only exposed comfort. 

The shrill call of an Osprey pries my gaze away and I follow the sound to find the fisher bird perched solemnly, high on one of the grey, dead Pinyon trees that stand stoically among their lush, green brethren.

Patiently he waits, as do I, scanning the calmers sections of the water for the rippling signs that the river dwellers are rising to feed on the first hatch of dusky, black midges.

On the far bank, yellow and brown grasses heavy with dew, droop in arcing unison towards the water’s edge as if ready to dive into the water. 

The still silence is broken by my Guide as he returns to ready his tan and maroon drift boat which rests idly in the calm shallows. 

I cautiously climb aboard and take my place in the bow seat, while Mouse, my Guide's affable, black and white border collie jumps in and assumes his usual post on the stern chair. 

As the boat drifts slowly toward the current, there is only the muted crash of the natural wood oar blades digging into the water, pulling the craft away from the rocky bank.  

The current quickly grabs the bow, and we are swiftly pulled downriver. As is my ritual, I peer over the shallow gunnels and look deep into the mesmerizing, emerald water. 

Brown and red boulders lie menacingly near the surface, causing small, static, chuffing waves as the relentless current slips endlessly over and around them. 

My Guide informs it is time. Taking my green fly rod (which nearly matches the color of the great river) in hand, I clumsily start to cast the tiny blue-wing fly, hoping to watch the line unfurl in in a graceful, gently unfolding arc.

After patiently unknotting my line, my Guide, as always, quietly tutors me on the basics of casting and I eventually cast the fly out into the drift of an easily flowing riffle, where white frothy bubbles ride on the edge of the current. 

The dull, background noise of the river is only broken by the occasional pull of an oar to keep the boat moving in tandem with the fly as it bounces over silver ripples. 

A sudden yellow bump appears on the surface, my fly disappears and I pull hard on the line, waiting that slight moment to see if the prey has been hooked. 

When the rod tip dances downward in an arc, there is an exhilaration that flashes white hot through my body as the rod is jerked strongly by a yet unseen foe.  

Racing back and forth under the water, suddenly there is an explosion of water as it leaps, and I get the first glimpse at the brown, yellow and black spotted trout as he viciously tries to detach the hook. 

The battle is eternal and short as the strong quarry, after a valiant effort, tires, allowing the blue and black net to gently surrounds him and bring him aboard. 

My Guide gently removes the offending blue and tan fly and with knowing, respectful hands, slowly sets the fish back into his liquid domicile. 

Slowly, the fish swims next to the maroon transom of the boat, waiting to gain some strength, then realizing it has been given a reprieve, gives a quick flick of the tail, and is gone. 

I look at my Guide, who is smiling broadly under his dingy, red and white baseball cap, proud of the fact that he has found me yet another fish and patiently coached me through the tedious process. 

The boat, anchored safely near a sandy bank, we silently rest and enjoy the moment, for times such as these are fleeting. He hands me an orange labeled bottle on which is a picture of a trout, and I sit back and drink a beer with my Guide...my son. 

rjh 2021