Spirit of the Current

A slight breeze whispers down from the north, winding through the
canyon as I sit alone on the rugged bank. It’s nearly dusk on the Yakima
River, and the heat of the day has surrendered to the sun setting behind
the canyon walls.

As twilight settles, the air along the river carries a rich, earthy scent—
damp soil warmed by the day’s sun now cooling beneath the evening
breeze. There’s a trace of moss and river rock, softened by the fading
heat and tinged with the sweet aroma of slow-moving water. The scent is
quiet and grounding, a blend of mineral and leaf, with the faintest hint of
smoke or wild sage drifting in from distant campfires. It’s the scent of
stillness and memory, of the land exhaling as the light fades.

I scan the surface of the water, watching for signs of life stirring below
—subtle ripples that signal the start of an evening hatch. I weigh my
options: match the hatch with a caddis or a stonefly or tempt fate with
something too irresistible for a summer trout to ignore—a streamer or a
well-placed hopper.

As I contemplate the choice, my hand instinctively reaches for the fly
box. The tearing sound of Velcro cuts through the quiet as I open my
pocket and pull out a worn, grey plastic case—weathered and familiar,
filled with temptations crafted at my tying vise. I crack it open, revealing
a vibrant array: bright flashes of feathered color alongside the more
subdued, earthy tones of deer hair and elk fur. Each fly holds a story, a
purpose, and the hope of a perfect drift.

As I watch the naturals float by on the surface, preparing for flight, I
reach down and select a #14 brown caddis with elk hair wings.
Repositioning my rod, I pull the leader free, tracing its length to the fine
tip of a 9-foot taper. I adjust my glasses, focus on the tiny eye of the
hook, and thread the tippet through with practiced care. As I tie the knot,
my heartbeat quickens—the anticipation of that first cast, the silent hope
for the first rise, stirs something profound within me.

I hook the fly to the loop above the cork handle, and with a few clicks of
the reel, I’m ready. Stepping into the water, the cold presses against my
legs, the current wrapping around me like a slow-moving force of
nature. I plant each foot carefully into the loose gravel of the riverbed,
feeling for balance as I move into position.

Scanning the water for signs of rising fish, I catch movement out of the
corner of my eye—a pair of trout sipping caddis from the surface. One
rises… then, a few seconds later, the other follows. It’s almost rhythmic,
like a four-count beat in a quiet ballet. Each caddis disappears in a soft
slurp, sacrificed to the river’s endless cycle of life.

I unhook the fly from the loop, eyes fixed on the current as it delivers
caddis to the waiting trout—like a server presenting a dish at one of
Seattle’s finest restaurants. I focus, steadying my breath, visualizing the
perfect placement, and drift to tempt one of the feeding fish. Picking my
target, I lift the rod, veering it upward in a smooth arc for the first cast.
The fly line stretches out behind me in an elegant display of motion—a
blend of rhythm, precision, and patience. At this moment, I am both a
conductor and a dancer in the river’s current. It’s not merely the act of
casting a line across a stream but a fluid expression of harmony between
hand and rod, line and fly, air and intent.

At its heart, casting a fly is the art of transferring energy—gracefully
loading the rod with a backward sweep and releasing that energy
through a forward stroke, sending the featherlight fly gently to its mark.
It’s about timing more than strength; it’s about feeling more than force. I
listen with my hands, sensing the subtle tension in the line, reading the
wind, and feeling the rhythm of the perfect arc unfold with each motion.
The loop—the holy grail of a good cast—unfurls like a ribbon in slow
motion, carrying with it the quiet hope of a flawless presentation. The fly
lands with a whisper, mimicking nature so convincingly that it fools
even the most discerning trout. There is poetry in its silence and mastery
in its restraint.

The anticipation of watching the fly drift perfectly into the trout’s lane
defies language. Words feel hollow, and no expression can truly capture
the split second before the rise—the subtle slurp, the sudden tension, the
sight of that magnificent creature turning away, believing it’s just
claimed another meal.

Then, the line tightens with a sharp whisper as it slices off the surface.
The rod tip flexes. The fight is on. My heart leaps, pounding in rhythm
with the clicks of the reel. My forearm tightens, bracing as the trout bolts
downstream, influential and wild, testing every knot and inch of line
between us.

We sense each other as the fight continues—it feels like two old friends
reunited after a long absence. He pulls, and I respond. He tires against
the current and the steady pressure of the rod. With purpose and
exhilaration, the line returns to its home on the reel, each rotation
bringing us closer. Droplets of water splash onto the rod, the reel, and
my hands—cool and electric.

The fluorescent green of the fly line reveals the butt section of the leader,
and I know I’m just seconds away from meeting my prize—the presence
that took the fly and fought with such heart, unaware that release, not
capture, awaits him.

I pull the net from the back of my fly vest and plunge it into the water
just as the fish swims directly into the mesh—he is mine now. Tucking
the rod beneath my arm, I wet my hand and gently cradle this multicolored
beauty. With care, I remove the hook, letting him rest in the
water-filled net.

These moments feed my soul. In them, I feel the presence of something
greater than man—something more powerful than even Mother Nature
herself. Lifting him slightly above the surface, I lean down and kiss the
top of his head in quiet gratitude. This is where I honor the sacred
connection—between man and animal, nature and life, spirit and soul.
I gently hold the tail of this great warrior as I lower the net for his
release. With a sudden surge, he springs to life, slipping from my hand
and vanishing into the current.

I’ve experienced this ritual many times, yet it has never lost its power.
Each encounter is as poignant and meaningful as the first—always