I was laughing and screaming uncontrollably and so was Erica. Like when you are still recovering from the thrill of a roller coaster and just can’t stop yelling through the adrenaline. But we weren’t anywhere near an amusement park or really any towns. We were ankle deep in the river, recovering from my short struggle with a trout that ended with the fish slipping away. When we finally stopped laughing long enough to speak, I looked right at Erica and said with a big smile, “ok- so what do I do if that happens again??”

A few years back, my slow relationship with fly fishing began when my husband bought each of us Tenkara rods for Christmas. I had expressed some interest in adding fly fishing to my backpacking skillset to fill the slow evenings and mornings at camp. The Tenkara system was simple enough to fit nicely into my pack without adding much weight or breakable moving parts. We hired a guide who got us over the initial hump of learning Tenkara and then we went out a couple times a year with some limited success. 

Since then our lives have gotten more complicated- we added two dogs, a house and most recently a baby to the mix. I try along the way not to stop doing the things I love, but rather find ways to incorporate my new life into my old adventures. I don’t backpack much anymore, but I still hike every week- just now with my daughter on my back instead of a tent. I meet friends for drinks, and she crawls around the breweries.

I found myself in a perfect situation to try western fly fishing in September. I was in Crested Butte, Colorado for work and had a new friend who guides in that area. The day after my conference ended, my husband and I met her at the fly shop on a dark, drizzly morning. As she fitted me with waders we chatted about the weather and if fishing was truly best in the rain. “Oh yeah. Browns love this shit,” Erica said dryly- and then immediate burst a smile. Everyone likes to debate the impact of the weather on fishing, she explained, but ultimately, she’s never noticed a huge difference in performance either way. So we set out in the rain, my husband, our baby and our guide, to try our hand at fishing in the rain. 

We drove an hour outside town and then stopped on the side of the road. A wooden stile provided anglers access over the barbed wire fence to the winding river below. Erica set us up with fly rods, western this time, and we practiced casting into the empty road until she was satisfied with our performance. 

For hiking, and for this fishing trip, we have a backpack that the baby can sit in. She sits just above my head, adding her 25 lbs to my pack weight- which, with water, snacks, layers and a first aid kit approaches 40 pounds total. I put on the pack and picked my way slowly over the stile, down the slope towards the water and through the mud and tall brush to the water’s edge. 

About an hour in, I had my first hit. A bright flash of red gave me a glimpse of the largest fish to ever come that close to my fly. It was a rush- the hard tug, my complete surprise as it was one of my first casts at that spot, and my utter confusion with the new rod and line management system. It was a brief fight before the fish swam away and I pulled in an empty line. But it almost didn’t matter. Erica was standing right next to me, watching the whole encounter so we both dissolved into hoots, hollers and giggles after the fish slipped away, never to be seen again. 

“Ok- so what do I do if that happens again?” I asked, feeling both completely confident it WOULD happen again- and that it probably wouldn’t- but that I didn’t even care. I had felt the rush that comes with finding out that the stream in front of me was alive with secrets, and that feeling alone was enough.

Erica walked me through what to do (again) when something hit my fly. I then recast into the same section of the river, knowing full well I had shot my chance with the flash of red fish. Erica trudged away from me towards my husband to help him find a new spot. 

I bounced up and down to keep the baby on my back happy. Fishing can be boring. Many (all?) kids who try fishing or tag along with adults who fish get bored. I know I did. No one in my family used flys when I was growing up, but my grandfather took me fishing with a spinning reel and worms a few times and it was…slow. I knew that staying in the same spot for so long was probably driving my daughter to fuss. In my mind and out loud I said, “I know, I know. Just one more cast!”

Suddenly, the indicator dry fly vanished and the line went taught. I felt the tug and a determined calm fell over me. I set the hook and started to lift the tip of my rod. Erica came rushing over and I heard her walk me through the process while she pulled out the net. The net! I’d never needed a net before! No, no, Kristen, I told myself-focus. Pull in the line. Finish the job.

It was a beautiful brown trout. Respectable size, nothing monstrous, but the biggest fish I’d ever caught. I knelt down in the water as Erica slipped the fish off the hook. I held the fish in my hands and it calmly allowed me a few seconds of victory. “Do you see the fish?” I asked my 10 month old, before finding a deep enough spot to release the trout back to its watery home. Andrew and Erica helped me back up top my feet, baby on my back; I was thrilled and thankful for the support. 

Fishing is one of those activities that lends itself to life lessons. You can see meaning in all or none of it- the success after working a hole for awhile could mean persistence or stubbornness or simple luck. The steady calm required to hook a fish after a hit could indicate how all life’s challenges should be faced or it could be testament to my sugarcoated version of reality. I choose to take away the following:

1. Mothers are badass and can do anything carrying a baby

2. Having the support of people who think bringing a baby fly fishing is great makes all the difference

3. Brown trout love this [rainy] shit