The first half of this story can be read here on Casting Across.

Immediately, the ascent was treacherous. I plodded up the loose forest floor in my wading boots, every step strengthening my resolve to get to the top while simultaneously increasing the force with which I asked myself “why?”

Mind you, this was a time when most wading boots were little more than thick canvas socks with laces and felt soles. The combined effect of the terrain and my footwear put me in a position in which Sisyphus would have been at an advantage. It was precarious, to say the least. About two thirds of the way up, I grabbed on to a sapling for a brief reprieve. It was then I looked down.

They say to never look down. In this spot, here’s why: I saw how many trout were really in the pool.

There were more fish than I had thought there were. Lots more. Most were undetectable from where I had been casting. Many were facing in the opposite direction than I had assumed. Some were enormous. It was perplexing how fish could be so cool, calm, and collected after I had thrashed their pool for hours on end. It was equally disheartening and exciting.

Yet no fish was going to get me to retrace my steps and descend the cliff. I’ll do a lot to get into casting position, including being slightly reckless. But life and limb? (And the safety of my fly rod?) That is where I draw the line. And the situation I had scurried myself into passed that line. It was dumb. It was unnecessary. It was frightening.

That was then. And, in a bit of a change of heart from the beginning of this piece, it is now.

When I set out to write about this experience, I was sure that I was going to talk about the risks we take as fly fishers: how danger is intrinsic to climbing and wading and being in the extremes of weather. But, you know, it is all for the fish – right?

There are plenty of much more hazardous outdoor activities. I wasn’t free climbing or running an ultramarathon or base jumping. I was, however, climbing up a steep bluff with equipment that both hampered efficiency and impeded safety.

Reliving the sights and sounds and emotions of that day took me from one perspective to another. I often use hyperbole to talk about trout and flies and rivers. As a literary device, it is fine. In the real world, literally scaling mountains when unprepared is foolhardy. Seeing that distinction might have been something that needed to come with age.

Honestly, I can’t quite tell if the fear has come with age or if age has revealed the fear that was suppressed.

***

After the brief respite I resumed my climb. I didn’t watch the trout. I just made my way up to the top of the ridge. Once I got there, I moved on to the next pool. I caught some fish. I caught them on dry flies. These fish weren’t any better, worse, or less intelligent than the trout in the famous pool.

I fished on until dark. Whether it be youthful naivety, or the trout outweigh stupidity equation, I can’t say for sure. I remember thinking that my old wading boots were terrible for hiking and that a new pair might be my next purchase. I remember thinking that there was a good sandwich spot between me and the interstate. I remember the missed opportunities of big, renowned, rising trout.

Today I remember that I, like many young fly fishers before me, am blessed to have narrowly missed a brush with the threats that come with being outdoors. In a life full of blessings, its not one I should ignore. Nor should I ignore the daily maturing process and the perspective that brings. Growing older means remembering those things as much as the fish, the rivers, and even my shifting priorities.