Many things drag us out into the wilderness: the daily barrage of incomprehensible political decisions, the copious amounts of brain-rot produced by the inevitable screen watching and scrolling that has become an avocation for many of us, the torrential downpour of painful monotony of adult daily life, or, for some of us, the thought of a rising trout. With that rising trout comes solace. The rising trout brings warm coffee from a fire-boiled pot. The rising trout brings meaning into our lives. The rising trout becomes us as we hike the rivers and mountain creeks with an artificial insect attached to a leader which we cast, from one rising trout to another. It can come as a tranquil time alone with the stream, or it can be a time of companionate sharing with friends or family. The rising trout grounds us all, and provides an opportunity more about quiet reflection in nature, rather than contending with the rest of humanity–the crowds we must push through each and every day we do not spend on the lone creek.

In one of his numerous books, One Hundred Paintings, one of the painting greats (and a fine writer as well) Russell Chatham wrote, “I had no notion of earning money by being a painter, or of being anything other than a person compelled to fish all the time”. I have held this quote dear to my heart for years. As a creative person myself, with drive and no income from said drive, I wish I could just fish all the time. I am compelled to fish–greatly compelled. While my college degree is in creative writing, and I have spent most of the years after college working outdoor jobs and grinding away at writing poetry (an art form that has been with me since I was influenced by the reading of Shel Silverstein as a toddler), it has never provided any sort of income for me other than a t-shirt of a wonderful but quite underground recording studio down in Portland, Oregon named the Banana Stand that gave me one in exchange for a concrete poem I had crafted up in praise of “The Banana Mural” on SE 12th and Division.

Now, while it brings little in the form of monetary value, I have had the pleasure of writing about my main hobby, fly fishing, for just about 20 weeks for 9b.news in beautiful Boundary County. It has been a great honor to write about such a wonderful hobby for my hometown, and also the ability to step up onto my soapbox when I feel the need to write about the things I find most important in life, and in the immediate world around us. After two column pieces each on Public Lands and on trash in our county, I have heard from many people online or in person about how much they agree or disagree with me. I love to get feedback, and very much enjoy most of the conversations that I have had with the community about my work (the people who do not understand Idaho land laws still get me quite tilted though).

However, the best part about this gig is that it lets me explore the waters around me when I am compelled to find that rising trout. When I am home with the family, I absolutely enjoy my time with them. I love to play with my son, to have conversations with him and hear the stories that he wants to tell me. My wife is quite amazing as well. Not only is she a great mother and life partner, but she is a nurse dedicated strongly to her work and a driven woman who only seeks to continually make herself, and everyone around her, better as life goes on. There are times I wish I could remain in this domestic bliss forever, but like the shattered water as a cutthroat trout's nose breaks through to eat a waterlogged mayfly at the edge of the bank of lost time, it haunts me when my mind is left to wander.

I am a family man that is stuck with the mind of a trout bum. As The Tallest Man on Earth sings in his song “Love Is All”, “I walk upon the river like it’s easier than land”.

I was always able to get away for some fishing in the past. These trips in the past few years have involved me taking my toddler son to the water while his mother slept through the day between her night shifts at the hospital. With the toddler in tow, I was able to fish (and start to teach him the ways of the stick), but that pool I needed to wade through waist-deep water and under the wild brush to get through? That was a no go. That rising trout in a seam across a raging river? Impossible with the little one. The inevitable cry of boredom from my child as we approach the first hour of a stream trip? That means that the fishing is done, and it is time to be a full-time dad. When Rachel was off work? I might get out and about to fish on occasion, but then I am in the water and leaving her with a ticking time bomb which never felt good.

I know that it can be read that I am a needy, terrible family man who would rather be fishing than be with my loved ones, and honestly (and sadly) it can be true. There are days I would rather be out in the waters than with them. It is not that I don’t love them because I do with all of my heart. But I also love myself, and there are days I need the waters to wash off whatever toils are in me. It sounds selfish, and it is. However, it helps keep me going, helps keep me in a good mood and discover new things about myself, the place and the people around me.

Now that I write a weekly column about fly fishing for you all to read, it allows me to get out and about more. My feet have been in more waters (and more new waters) this year than any before. I regularly travel away from my normal local haunts I have fished for decades to lay out line on new creeks. It has made me a happier, more relaxed person than I have been for a while. I have been connected with people from the local chapters of Trout Unlimited and from Idaho Fish and Game and have received invaluable information and data about our local waters that I would not have seen without my work. I have gained sponsorships that allow me to get a few discounts on gear that I wouldn’t have been able to get otherwise. Not only has my writing finally given me a bit more after all these years, but the urge to get out on the waters now has more of a purpose outside myself.

That urge hit me last Friday. After a day full of Olaf’s swim lessons, taking the puppy out to Myrtle Creek for a swim, and making a down and dirty simple dinner, I loaded up my fly rods and went towards Snow Creek. I know that one or two readers might be screaming about spot burning as I mention a name of a creek, but 1) fix your pants, Snow Creek is over 12 miles long and is an extremely popular area, and 2) you will hate this next part. I went to try out fishing under the upper falls for some of the cutthroat I knew the creek held. I parked my car around 7 p.m. and a large group of hikers were gathered at the top of the trailhead. I had my gear together and went to walk by them when one stopped me.

“Just to let you know, a mama bear is down there with a cub.”

I look at the guy, a very woodsy looking dude who I could immediately trust as I have had much experience with the folks up in this neck of the woods. “Where at?” I asked, hoping he would not mention the falls at all.

“‘Round the upper falls. Seems she is looking to den up. Have fun, as long as you are packing.”

I thanked him for the information and started to make my way down. However, I realized I wasn’t packing. Bear spray was not on me, and as I get older, I am starting to be a little more wary with the way I approach areas with active, recent bear reports such as this.

Disappointed, I walk back to the car with dreams of cutthroat in my net and the rush of the falls in my ears. I drove back down the road and fished a part of another creek for a bit with a few little cutthroat caught on a small ant pattern and a short earful from a property owner that didn’t understand Idaho Water Rights. Must be new in the state.

To you all, thank you for reading. I appreciate it, I am grateful, and I am in debt to all of you who take time out of your day to soak in what I have to say. I will leave you all with a Jim Harrison Poem titled Water:

Water

By Jim Harrison

Before I was born I was water.

I thought of this sitting on a blue

chair surrounded by pink, red, white

hollyhocks in the yard in front

of my green studio. There are conclusions

to be drawn but I can’t do it anymore.

Born man, child man, singing man,

dancing man, loving man, old man,

dying man. This is a round river

and we are her fish who become water.