My husband says, "It's not the fish you're after," and after dozens of trips to the river, I finally get it. Watching him fly fish is so therapeutic, so rhythmic, which is unlike my fishing style. I use a spinner rod and get agitated after ten minutes of no nibbles. I'm impatient, too enthusiastic, and the rises only taunt me.
On a recent trip one golden autumn day, we head to the river and trump along the river rocks with hundreds of tiny black spiders taking cover in the cracks. As his line streams through the air, I walk along the sandy shore with our son on my back and an eagle silently drops from a limb and swoops down before flying somewhere further from us. The flies land on the glassy, fast-moving surface of the water and sure enough, another rise and swallow. But my husband's lure skips along without the interference he's hoping for. He stops to switch flies after paying close attention to his live competition and begins the dance all over again, chest in the water.
It's not the fish he's after. It's the spiders and the eagle and the walk along nature's edge. It's honing in on the finest details of life.