The ride into Mountain Town, Idaho admittedly made me check my map to make sure I hadn’t made a terrible plan on too much sauce. Mile after mile of sage brush and craggy hilltops dotted with sheep and cattle gave an eerie, almost off-putting, sensation. This was a dramatic departure from the sweeping views of Colorado, and the technical terrain of Utah. As mile after highway mile continued with elongated stretches of foggy agriculture, Idaho honestly resembled a spicy Indiana most of the time. Lacking tell-tale “trouty” signs, I legitimately stopped along the road to verify this tryst onto the surface of Mars would somehow produce excellent fish.
Pulling into Pocatello, Idaho—the nearest fly shop to my fishing over three hours away—I first noticed the heat, or lack thereof. Where all of Colorado had been sweltering, and July in Indiana had felt like the surface of the sun, I opened my door to 51 degrees and hazy overcast in the current locality. This sharp nip of Autumn was the first indication that things would be different here. Fish thrive in this cooler temperature band, and I would need to take diligent notes of how the heat was behaving during the day so I could adjust flies accordingly. After a few daydream filled moments of navigating through the small city, my GPS informed me that my fishing-Jedi lie just around the corner, waiting to dispense wisdom.
Walking into the Snake River Fly Company, it immediately becomes apparent that this is not a fly shop run on merchandising. Lacking much branded attire outside of a few hats here and there, the majority of their space and inventory was dedicated to a massive collection of dry and wet flies. Every streamer imaginable, experimental flies, more dries than I had ever seen in one place, and a few squirmy worms to round out the lot. The rest of the store was a few haphazardly arranged pieces of outer wear and other soft goods.
After doing my best “midwestern charm” and talking about recent travels, our conversations turned to the Boise River where I would be venturing. A glowing report of hungry trout and cool waters eased my concerns about getting skunked on a big trip, and the conversations turned again to flies. He walked me around the large selection and occasionally tossed in a woolly bugger, pink dry or occasionally something weird. Moving across the large board filled with an exotic array of faux furs, dubbing and hooks, the guide hovered over one in particular that struck me—as astonishingly ugly. A lurching brown thing with scraggly burlap texture and a rough-hewn tuft of white protruding from the top, I was averse to fishing the fly because it was such a departure from the emerald olive, deep purple, subdued greys, and other graceful flies I was used to fishing. In short, this mutt was positively unlovable.
However, the opinion of a fly guide is the opinion of a fly guide—and to ignore the pitch of “this is the fly I would use if I had to feed my family on the frontier” would be pure hubris. I shuffled around the store and left after a couple of handshakes and an offhanded “good luck” or two. Once again, they promised with the right amount of patience this otherwise underwhelming area would show it’s worth soon enough.
Making a quick grocery trip for more ramen noodles, beer and lunchmeat (the essentials); my travel day drug on. But as I wove in and out of grocery aisles lazily picking up various odd and ends—I still felt like prying eyes could tell I was an outsider. Undoubtedly being invaded during Covid by California’s entire population working from home, it was almost as if my domestically foreign mannerisms had somehow manifested into a “Sims” style beacon indicating additional non-natives attempting to rob more of the area’s precious space. Making it out with minimal shade thrown my way, I egressed Pocatello, and started towards Mountain Town.
The Ranch
Having arranged for my Air BnB last night, and making the decision to stay there based entirely on it’s proximity to the snake river, I now intimately understood what “working ranch” meant. Cowboys zipped around on ATVs, large bulls grazed an open yard without harassment, and nobody really paid any mind other than to say hello as they finished up a days work. Easing into the courtyard, and next to the guest house I would be staying in, my new location ritual began.
Coolers brought in, ice topped off, bags moved around, and trash dispatched from my cockpit. I do despise driving surrounded by mess, and given my remote location it seemed like a bad time to miss details due to carelessness. Around me, the ranch hands slowly evaporated into a bunk house. There was no late-night drinking, fighting or whisky consumption—these real life vaqueros bear little resemblance to their Paramount likeness. But then again, that’s with most things Hollywood gets its hands on.
After over ten hours in a car, the remnants of dusk found me walking down to the banks of the Snake river and seeing if I could hustle a little guy from the bank. Completely interested in unwinding, and fishing for the ritual of the thing more than production— pinks and maroon cloud swatches melted into the beginnings of twilight as I danced with micro nibbles from wary fish accustomed treble hooks and violent tactics. The anxiety of the road melted into the anticipation of the morning while I reeled in my further defeated flies to prepare for the morning’s adventure.
The Night before.
With all the work (an a bit of play) attended to, I could begin to prep my gear for the backcountry tomorrow. I pulled waders still damp with the Arkansas river out of my bag, and inspected them for any rips, tears or tugs. Boots received the same treatment, but they’re more or less just rock hoppers designed to be torn up. My reel was removed and the line inspected for slits or clips; I’d have to use a much lower quality line should it be torn up. Less than ideal on waters with such large fish.
I took out my fly rod, and ran hands over the brass cap before slipping into memory. New to me, this R.L. Winston rod presented itself on a rained-out Saturday morning in Grayling. My uncle had snapped his rod tip, and after brief attempts at ingenuity we admitted defeat and decided to swing by the local Trout Unlimited chapter’s garage sale to score some cheap decent rods. Love at first sight, my bougie soul reached out and connected with a 8’9” R.L. Winston five weight. To decipher all that gibberish, a five weight rod is a generic go to for the fly-fishing community. It can handle a large bandwidth of fish, and is rarely the belle of the ball but always a close second.
The appeal of this particular five weight, is due to its R.L. Winston lineage. Much like driving a classic Mercedes, this thing just had style. Several models removed from the current generation, this nineties baby had been a gift for pledging lifetime membership to Trout Unlimited. But, being a local fishermen, this donor had several rods that were easier to assemble or of higher quality, resulting in my easy score. The entirety of my purchase going to local conservation efforts helped to ease the price sting, before it hauled in a couple of 8” Brookies later the same day and eased any misgivings I had previously conjured.
But daydreams about my Excalibur aside, gear still needed prepping.
The most engaging problem is always organizing flies based on the region they had been brought from. There’s typically a tip, color or suggestion that works locally and a fly tier might try to imitate. Over time you notice the ebb and flow of a day, and thus, it pays to keep flies arranged roughly by region and time of year to ensure the best success. The local Snake river flies all imitated some sort of pink or salmon tone with the smaller dry flies designed to attract younger fish, while the larger “grasshopper” flies all resembled a deep bark brown that starkly contrasted the vibrant smaller fare.
Cracking another sockeye and taking a hearty swig, I pulled out a new 4x leader and carefully unwound the tapered nylon thread that would be the missing link between my heavy weighted line and featherweight tippit. I tied line into one intricate pattern, letting the deliberate series of loops slowly become my setup for the day. A final once over and some light reading would round out the night before tomorrow’s early rise.
Thursday Morning
The percolator started crackle as the stovetop coils turned from black to amber, and the day reluctantly began itself. I’d set my alarm for 4:45 knowing that the ten minutes of wondering why I’m up so early would be a small price to pay for a premium location. Although it was only Thursday, any trout fishing this good is liable to have some sort of pressure every day. If there’s any advantage my otherwise underwhelming military service gave me, it’s understanding that most people are unbelievably lazy when left to their own devices. Ten ounces of effort generally puts you at a significant advantage, and my early rise would surely pull dividends.
And while the water also rose from it’s slumber to a boil, the percolator rolled over golden dollops to signal we were ready for the road. Cowboy coffee cooled off as the usual routine began. Rifling through equipment and getting hands on critical items, it seemed significant to have a good inventory before driving an hour away. Bags were moved, ice added to coolers; and while the sun approached to court the sky, Dad’s truck and I pulled into the dusty dirt road of a deep blue horizon.
Bull-ish Forecast
Choosing modesty at first, Idaho would have you believe it’s rolling hillsides are the English breakfast of terrain. Bland, lumpy, and generally best served to an open trashcan. Clearly, most of the state’s initial impressions are underwhelming. Rolling hills did little more than obfuscate the next spread of beige and grey colored terrain, creating a bland toned color scape that seemed more likely to inspire a nap than identify the gateway to some sort of hidden majesty in Southern Idaho.
But cresting the final hill before the Anderson Dam, now that is a reveal. The clouds turned over a blanket of indigo and cobalt twilight, exposing a skyscape with interwoven violet, golden and light blue brushstrokes. The meager hills dramatically broke formation and plunged into a pristine river at the valley’s lowest point. While it’s hard to pin down exactly what about Idaho is so beautiful—I believe it has something to do with the attitude of this place in general.
Colorado completely publicizes its beauty. It’s the “influencer” of states, with three thousand selfies narcissistically cataloging every beautiful feature it contains. Every piece of marketing material is saturated with vast panoramas of mountain escapes and the promise of a rugged adventure. Montana and Wyoming are much of the same way, “find your wild soul, come to Yellowstone!” “Welcome to the Tetons!” and shoot, for the price of a 10-gallon hat you can pretend to be a cowboy in Cody. In stark contrast, is reality. A trip to the I-70 corridor in Colorado will show that this alpine town, built by World War II soldiers returning from Austria, is now completely out of the everyday person’s grasp both financially and logistically. And Montana? Forget about Bozeman, especially now that John Mayer lives there and Kevin Costner made “Yellowstone”. The point is, so few of these wild spaces actually “wild” anymore.
In a world where these rugged places seem like a commodity—Mountain Town, Idaho is extremely private about it’s beauty. Out of state plates are regarded with a general sense of distrust, and information must be hard won with the right conversations and legitimate sincerity. The river isn’t surrounded by code jockeys building their third home, but by real people. Working class employees who look forward to these trips all week, month, and year with the little time they’re allotted. There were no Lexus SUVs, overlanding Forerunners or Benz G wagons in these valleys, only roughly hewn trucks littered with fly shop stickers and grit.
Crawling to the valley’s base past a truly impressive Dam, I scanned for posted information about rules and regulations unique to this municipality. “No friggin way.” I said out loud eyeballing the “Anglers, You Are In Bull Trout Country!” sign. My voice sounded like a minor transgression against the mornings peaceful beginnings, and I made a mental note to avoid it’s use for the time being.
My gut hunch buzzed in the air, hummed in my skin, and sizzled in my fingertips gripping the wheel. Turning left, the Boise exceeded any expectations I might have had. Starry night riffles gracefully dancing above a pastel pebble strewn river bed. Multicolored flat shoals scattered the water’s landscape, broken up by deeper runs highlighted by dark cyan.
I pulled into a particularly appealing space to start the day, with a shallow area leading gradually into deeper water that looked positively trouty. After rolling up all the windows and enjoying the last few minutes of warmth, I stepped out into the completely still forty something morning and inhaled deeply.
Arrival
Releasing the pine and dirt infused air from my lungs, it was time to get to work. Preparing my waders and getting the truck ready seemed to take eons, but I also found solace in the fact my early morning likely meant more alone time. This dawn hour was finally absent of my truck’s squeaks, creaks and groans. Heavy stagnant cold seemed to hang around the body and slowly sap warmth from unprotected skin. Cold and quiet kept the shore asleep, while the sweeping, rolling Boise seemed well into its morning. Turning attention to an inspection of line and leader to ensure the tippet and streamer were still intact—it had been decided last evening that my first weapon on the day would be a glistening white tuft of faux fur, with a little purple blue underbelly. I wanted a big ole’ thicky Bull trout.
After a few tugs, prods, zip and clips—I felt satisfied with my reel orientation, rod preparation, wader fit and number of river beers. The truck received a final scan before slapping the tailgate shut, as dirt and cinder crunches marked my advance towards the river. After a short scramble towards a gravel shoal, I put my first boot into the river’s surface and felt the heavy sensation of a current tugging at my boots.
Solace
It always feels a bit “man on the moon” at first walking into a river, and today was no different. Soft rocky bottom padded under my feet. Ash grey and soot black silhouetted my foot with almost no distortion, the label clearly visible on my wading boots. Ripples swirled around the surface while the bottom felt like a different universe—and the rhythmic song and dance began.
My weighted line sailed the streamer far into the deep, cold incoming current. Crystal clear water around me seem to gradually fade into a deep aqua blue, the opaque current that large fish like to hunt in. While the first hour of my morning failed to produce any bites, nibbles, interest or strikes, I pulled a small joint from my pocket and indulged briefly as a reprieve from the metronome of casting. The cast, drag, cast, drag rhythm allowed my eyes to soak in the horizon. Pines proudly flanking the riverside above, as pockets of eddies concealed and revealed how different sub surface obstacles shifted the river’s surface below. I admired plum sky, primarily how the gloom of yesterday had been replaced with the sunny optimism of today. Glancing further beneath the rivers surface there were even several bull trout obscuring my feet sub-surface.
And then, my substance slowed brain caught up to my eyes, and registered just what the hell I was looking at. Not just around my feet, but literally swarming my feet, was the pale blue and gold flecked silhouettes of several Bull trout. Now these weren’t the typical collection of curious babies too dumb to know any better, these were absolute monsters.
Undoubtedly having existed in this river for years now, these trout were the wiley vets of the river that would be wise to every single one of my tricks. They weren’t here because they were too dumb to recognize a predator—they were just intelligent enough to know exactly how the predator (me) would behave. I threw streamers. I threw nymphs. I threw midges. I threw dry droppers. I prayed for divine intervention to Shiva, Jesus, Muhammed, and even emailed Joel Osteen for the opinion of a Satanist.
But, alas, there are times in the river when one needs the self-awareness and maturity to acknowledge that, as much as catching fish matters to fly fishermen, it means nothing to literally anyone else. Much like baby pictures and fitness pictures, a large fish is both incredibly important to you, and inconsequential to the rest of the world. Understanding this fact, I threw in the towel while watching prize sized Bull trout, Brown trout, and the by-God largest Brook trout I ever did see use my boots like the river water cooler for an hour.
But in taking away the pressure to harvest one of these fish, I was able to fully enjoy their presence. Brief contextless photographs captured the moment. I held my phone above the water and attempted a digital sketch of the moment that missed something. Photos always do.
I saw my fish, but it lacked the indigos of a silent freezing morning, the purples and charcoal of a silent shadows unmolested by the sun behind cavern walls. I can see the fish, but I can’t smell the monochromatic greens of pine and cedar. I can see the water, but I can’t feel the shimmer of its transparent glaze weaving between my feet and churning towards a destination unknown. A picture is worth a thousand words, yes, but memory has a sensory depth that we so often discount in the preservation of moments. As our sensory recollection of a person, place or thing fades—so does the value our photos work tirelessly to preserve.
Granted, a lot of that heady interpretation could be due to the robust cannabis joint I had lit in the wake of my failure, but I do feel the sentiment is valid and worth preservation. As I slowly drug on my cigarette I couldn’t help but appreciate the trout resting in the slowly churning wake behind me. My presence acted as a literal break from the constant ebb and flows of their daily life. I was a predator; they were the prey. Our dynamic remained unchanged in the grand scheme of things. But for that brief moment we needed each other as a reprieve from something, just in different ways.
The Spot
However, as in sports and life, things are not a continuous highlight reel. Moving down the river, fishing had gone from dull to nonexistent. Rhythmic casting had lost some of it’s new spot shimmer, and I enjoyed my first fishless beer of the day. An unspoken violation of “the rules” it seemed this gesture acknowledged my skunk streak would be continuing.
All the typical self-talk failed to assure me that this drought was not a product of my fishing abilities, and at one point around mid-morning there was even a consideration of changing my hats because I had contaminated my Minturn Anglers hat with bad “juju”. Refusing to have my life dictated by an imaginary force working against me—like somehow my pursuit of catch and release trout was of galactic importance—I shoved the same hat onto my head and peeled further down the road to hopefully troutier pastures.
….
Seeing a slightly less precarious section of road to ease into, I found a perfectly truck sized place to pull off and stepped onto the bed cover; surveying for spots that warranted further reconnaissance. To my right, there was a swarm of deep obsidian currents cutting through a sky-blue river. Much colder, faster, water. This would be far too deep to wade, and potentially hazardous without a clear view of the sharp and jagged rocks dotting the riverbed. Panning to my left, there was a much different piece of terrain. A towering rock face had dog legged the river in my direction, its dense granite creating a diversion for the strong current. Opposite of that cliff, was a gently sloping gravel area that would be a prime pocket for my quarry looking to rest after a long day of battling the current.
Further investigation of this spot led me to observe dense collections of foliage on the inside bank. This meant those wading would have to battle with a non-permissive walk in. Scrubby brush from floor to treetop meant that a nine-foot rod would be near impossible to infiltrate with (and forget about a net). If there’s anything I learned about people in my years as a Sniper and Infantry instructor, it’s that the average human does not enjoy bumbling through a wood line with a catalogues worth of gear attached. The nautical approach to this honey hole by way of gravel shoal featured an extremely technical array of fallen logs, sharp rocks, and submerged tree limbs. There are a growing number of exceptions to the rule, but fly fishing is generally a sport with a “less athletic” client base. Good for me should a spot like this one require balance and acrobatics to reach less pressured fish.
Settling on using my balance and coordination instead of brute force, I hopped down from the truck bed and began to prepare my gear for the walk over and water entry, going heavy on the water and food should I be away from the truck a majority of the afternoon. Patrolling down the dusty road and scanning for inlets into the prime fishing territory I had been salivating over prior, several cars emerged parked conspicuously up the road, obviously in order to keep people out. A quick survey would show this spot was clearly designed for multiple fishers, and that these guys were just being assholes. Military ID in hand and tiny violin at the ready in case an angry camper decided to voice their displeasure, I started down the path past their vehicles and obviously abandoned campsite. They had likely put a drift boat in, and were harassing larger fish far upstream from my current location.
……
Starting on the rocky shoal, I threw dry dropper after dry dropper into the churning cool water of the chunky rock face. However, as we often forget in fly fishing, we are a small part of some much larger activity. If a spot looks perfect to us—it likely looks perfect to everyone else who has put a moderate amount of effort into this activity. Realizing this easily accessed shoal was likely for more local anglers who knew it’s nooks and crannies intimately, I silently approached the previously reconnoitered technical wade area.
Step after step was deliberately placed onto various tree trunks, boulders and sections of exposed riverbed. Clipping the droppers from my dry fly, I elected for maximum precision and ease of movement over the increased chances of a fish taking a wet fly in the heat of the afternoon. I kept my rod at the ready, only casting at specific logs and pools near the bank to avoid becoming complacent and just slapping the water. With the ultra-soft tip of my Winston, and no accessories dangling off my dry fly, this meant that when I looked at an area and cast deliberately, there was a great chance that’s where my fly would be going. I cast from tip-toes at odd angles, roll-casted near the bank of trees, and sniper-casted under branches for the better part of an hour.
However, at 12:53 pm Mountain Time, I laid down the slickest roll cast my 31 years of age could conjure. The rod loaded perfectly, the line silently whipped around, and my “Pioneer Fly” landed on the rivers surface like the brown body was hand delivered by Robert Winter and Lew Stoner themselves. I locked eyes with my fly, and the river seemed to swell and pop, before a flash of fury devoured my imitation insect. Obviously well fed and in the prime of its life, this delinquent’s tantrum nearly severed my rod in half.
Flashing back to my lost opportunity in Colorado, I raised my rod high and attempted to strip line in as the carnivore first cut hard into the middle of the river; brutally dragging my line under a submerged tree branch. I held on as the enraged animal screamed out of the water and thrashed the surface in indignation his juicy lunch had been a ruse. He cut left, he cut right, and only after several minutes of outbursts was I able to gently bring the line to my net. With one last weary jump signaling defeat and soaking me in the process, our dance came to an end. The gleaming body passively sliding rolled over my hickory wicket before recovering in the cool water— as peace slowly overcame the both of us I couldn’t help but awe at the speckled Cutbow heavily breathing under the surface.
Notorious for both a bad attitude on it’s Rainbow side, and beautiful spotting on it’s Cutthroat side, these fish are known to cross pollinate in waterways with both subspecies near the area. Its marble eyes swirled and scanned strange new surroundings, deep black iris contrasting the sage and gold gradient glistening down the animal’s body. Black freckles peppered the entirety of his side, most dense high on the body and gradually becoming less prominent towards the belly. But most stunning were the markings confirming it’s status as a Cutbow; deep crimson gills and blood colored stripe flanking a powerful body, with similarly colored fins featuring the white tips. Filling the entirety of my hands, it was impressive to see how much muscle was in this small package. The Cutbow was reluctant for me to remove the large and deeply embedded fly with a hemostat, and I was only able to control the fish long enough to hand remove the barbless hook. Done with the routine work that comes with safely and responsibly landing a trout, I debated next steps.
While this hog measured near 20”, and was absolutely within regulations to keep, I had no ability to keep the trout cold enough to eat later and the meat would inevitably spoil before I could cook it. Easily making the decision, I gently lowered the net into the water and my quarry sharply darted under submerged root cover. One last glance in my direction, and it faded into a tangle of roots nearest the bank.
Watching him vanish, I felt only jubilee. Lightning currents of adrenaline pumped into my amygdala, my fingers felt a hum, and my whole body seemed to tremor realizing that I had waded in unassisted and caught what many would consider to be a “legitimate” trout. The fact I had only one picture and no service meant I was fully able to bask in the ecstasy that is this moment. The sun had parted spotty clouds, there was no audience to influence the moment, the natural terrain remained incredible. Memory could erode the moment over time, and age retained the right to sieve recollection completely, but for a brief period I knew complete and total happiness.
….
After
There’s a flash of clarity following a significant moment. I had ventured into the middle of absolute nowhere Idaho without much of a clue, and hauled out the trophy trout I had been looking for. It’s as if the full emotional brunt of a snapshot washes over the whole of your being, and something inside shifts as a direct result. It isn’t always clear what shifts, or why, but the tectonic plates of personality seemed to be in constant motion already as I hurled towards Seattle and a new start and this was somehow related to that phenomenon.
…
And for a while, that’s where my cursor stopped moving.
…
Unable to explain what I had been feeling, or why this moment seemed seeped in bittersweet joy, I would rather publish nothing than communicate poorly why this trip and experience had been so significant to me. For close to seven months, I looked at the final paragraph and struggled with what to write.
I think by now everyone can understand this trip was never about the fish. I wasn’t Ishmael looking for my white whale; I needed large amounts of time to unpack the experience of my father’s intense and sudden passing. We briefly had the chance to slow down with one another during summer days on the Au Sable, and that already short time was pruned for the demands of my completely irrelevant National Guard career. In denial consciously, we never discussed death. His complete cessation of correspondence over the phone, shaking hands of opiate addiction, and the rapid weight loss of chemotherapy had written those volumes.
Fishing had been the distraction, but reality was infinitely more insidious.
I still remember riding with him to hospice after my family elected to let him die. My perfectly conscious father was wheeled out of a hospital in a daze—he and I looked out of the Ambulance’s open doors at a gorgeous July evening, both fully understanding this would be the last time he went outside. Days later, the morphine drip finally slowed his respiration to an unsustainable level. My hero, my muse, my mentor, my father. What was left of him suffocated to death; pumped full of anti-anxiety meds and opium-based painkillers. I have never, and will never, forget what that sense of betraying him feels like. The frozen impression of his face during death has replaced his smile in my memory.
And after such a tremendous crescendo of significance, nothing changed. The world continued to operate as it would have otherwise, and I was forced to examine whatever it was I had become in the wake of all that.
Something grotesque, someone different. A fundamentally altered human. There’s damage done in the violent observation of suffering that seeps itself into the sinew and fiber of your soul. Perspective develops a sepia toned lens following tragedy that drapes beauty in a stubborn bitterness. There’s a temptation and inclination to return to something resembling “normal”, but what that sentiment lacks is an understanding that this is your new normal.
Drugs and alcohol became the sanctuary my family will never be, and I swan dove into an aggressive bout with substance abuse that was only kept at bay by the rigors and demands of my career.
Rage and pain welled under every fabric of my soul. Hate’s bloodied talons clawing at the seams of fatigue filled days following sleepless nights, thirsting to unleash violence that would dull my grief. I despised the coward in myself, I stoked malice towards the family who had let my father die; and felt my only tether to reality was the stubborn and intense love of my wife. Her grace in the face of my worst inclinations forced me to believe that something could love whatever I now was, and enabled a sense of compassion towards that rage.
Part of that healing, she understood, was going to the only place that has quieted my father’s demons as well. The river.
With that much turmoil, anguish, grotesque self-pity and bitterness rolling around inside—it was perfection to immerse my heart in deep pools of relief offered by a trout stream. Baptized in perfect silence, moments that seemed so unique and unfair to me gained the context of a bigger picture and larger world. These creatures lived, hunted, hid and existed with such an intensity because they were regularly reminded of mortality. It surrounded them, and wove into the fiber of their being, giving each day a purposeful sense of clarity. There is no room for hubris, distraction and frivolities when the stakes are paramount in such wild places.
I came to realize with time that I had been given a mirror into the future. In an entirely dispassionate world, I had seen the worst-case scenario unfold for someone I loved completely and without exception. I understood how the life he made enabled us to live with extraordinary means, and how little all of that mattered when a tangible end came into view. My father, as he had with every other aspect of our lives, had suffered so immensely to spare us from the revelations that come from a life lived in the pursuit of possessions. Such is the labor of a father’s love.
I understand these sentiments are not likely what my father envisioned or wanted for the remainder of my life, but like writing, the author loses the ability to dictate interpretation when they release a work into the world. Our family’s handling of his disease and the fallout from that moment shattered my summer child understanding of the world into thousands of fractured pieces that will never find themselves perfectly aligned again. I can’t erase the things my family did, and there will never be another chance to say things left unsaid.
But, I can carry those broken parts and forge them into something entirely new and my own. With the hope that understanding and epiphany will emerge from suffering, I’ll return to sanctuaries like the Boise and AuSable to interact with healing waters that know nothing of my situation, and everything about my experience.
