We woke up early Wednesday morning to the sound of our alarm clock, a disruption to the peaceful rhythm of Gore Creek that ran right past our bedroom window. Today was our first day of fly-fishing. Ever.
We stepped into the cold Colorado River. Our waders shivered and our boots filled with water, yet we could not feel a thing—quite a peculiar sensation. Our rods in tow, we lined up on the edge of the river and the guides demonstrated how to cast. An hour later we were on our five-boat float.
In an attempt to catch a fish, I climbed out of the boat and cast my line upstream. Yes! I felt a tug and clumsily jerked the rod and the fishless fly flew over my head and into a tree. I proceeded to cast again, this time with more luck. I had caught my first fish, a squirming, smooth Brown Trout.
The rest of the day was cold and raining, yet beautiful. The surrounding mountains were a rich shade of green and the snow-capped mountains towered in the distance. I caught four more fish, we navigated three rapids, and we ate a delicious meal at picnic tables in the middle of a green clearing.
Thursday morning, our alarm sounded again, but this time it signaled our journey to the airport. As we sat on the airplane, we looked through images of us holding our Brown Trout and attempting to look like seasoned fisherman. My friend asked, “Are you ready for the Subject Tests on Saturday? How much are you going to study? I frowned.
Fly Fisher, Class of 2010
