Imagine watching a movie dozens of times but never seeing the beginning. Assuming the story isn’t too complicated, you’ll probably get the gist of things. And if it’s a good flick you’ll enjoy the experience regardless.

Up until this past week, that was kind of my experience with Shenandoah National Park.

Since the earliest days of my fly fishing, I’ve been exploring the rivers on both slopes of the park. The Rapidan, Rose, Devil’s Ditch, Thornton, and Piney were creeks that I frequented over the decades. I’d drive from Northern Virginia to spend the day hiking upstream and chasing wild fish.

The scenery was spectacular. The wildlife was abundant. The little rural villages became familiar. With few exceptions the brook trout were cooperative.

But I’d never seen the beginning of the movie.

For a few reasons I’d never been up to the headwaters of any of these creeks. Getting there would have been farther away and taken more time. Access was also restricted to Skyline Drive, a scenic parkway that came with a fee. When I started fishing the cost was prohibitive. As time went on, I was content with how I’d always done things.

This year, I bought my family an America The Beautiful Pass. It’s a year-long, unlimited use permit to enter National Parks, Wildlife Refuges, and other federally managed lands. We’ve had it for a month and it’s already paid for it’s $80 price tag.

Most recently it granted us access to Skyline Drive. For the first time, I traversed the ridge of the Shenandoah. After 20 years, I was finally on top of the park that I’d been in and fished countless times.

Along with taking in the breathtaking vistas, I spent a lot of time orienting myself with my surroundings. There is something about standing in a spot, seeing another spot, and tangibly reconciling how they orient to each other in real space. For my purposes it meant seeing familiar towns down in valleys. Then I’d picture the mountain views I was used to while I was on those streets – though now I was on those mountains.

What’s more, it meant looking down into numerous hollows from above that contained my favorite brook trout streams. It was a new perspective, and it was incredible.

Seeing the intensity of the gradient, the density of the foliage, and the diminutive trickles that would become rivers isn’t going to help my fishing. The mental, aerial pictures I have of the watersheds aren’t going to give my any advantages when it comes to catching trout. What has happened is simple: I’ve seen it all. Well, not all of it, but much more. My frame of reference has expanded, and with it my familiarity of these wild places has grown.

Greater perspective lends itself to richer presence. Or, being someplace next to another place helps to appreciate both places more. Fly fishing demands narrow focus on the water, sometimes diminishing the fullness of the total weight of one’s surroundings. Stepping back, or up, can broaden your perspective.

Maps are good. But maps represent something real. Photos and videos help, but they can’t be experienced. Standing on the crest of that ridge, for the first time I got to experience the beginning of something I’ve been a part of over and over again.