You’d think that it would be easy to write about fly fishing in a new place, for a new fish, for the first time. There is a lot to say about the particularities of the species – how it looks, how it acts, how it is the same or different than other fish like it. One strain of cutthroat trout is different than another, which are still dissimilar from rainbows… and quite different from brookies. And, of course, that’s just talking about trout (and char).

It should be simple to describe the endless contrasts that exist between fly fishing out west and on the east coast. It isn’t just Rocky Mountains vs. Appalachians. The rocks, the trees, and the bugs make for completely unique experiences even before you cast a fly.

There seems to be a progression:

• While you’re in it, fishing, there is an awe and wonder of the totality of what is around you. You’re focusing on the fish, but all the other stimuli flood in at a rapid pace.
• Immediately afterwards, it is about the fish. What was caught, what wasn’t caught. What you could have done better, what you did right. Mostly what you could have done better. Certainly, if and when you’ll get to go fishing again.
• After some time has passed, it all levels out a bit. The highs of the catches and the highs of what else you saw emerge from the panoply of everything else. Birds and squirrels that were novel at the moment, and inconsequential on the drive home, become more pleasing as the memories take their place.

Right now, a few days away from heading home, I’m on step number two.

I don’t think I’m alone in my analysis. But if I can’t think clearly enough to write something worth posting regarding chasing cutthroat trout in high elevation streams, I absolutely shouldn’t be putting out hypotheses on angling psychology. Or something more profound, even.

It is easy to write about fly fishing in a new place. Writing about fly fishing in a new place with perspective takes some time and distance. Maybe the profound will come after I return to New England and fish for brook trout again. Then I can feel the contrasts I’m thinking about. Maybe anything worth writing or reading won’t come until I head into the high country of Colorado another time.

Maybe I’m making excuses to go through my contrived progression over and over again… because that means more fishing.