Guest Essay by Liza Thompson
Fields of golden wheat flicker through the window as the car speeds down the county road. Along the fence line, meadowlarks perch, taking flight as we cut through the quiet morning. In the distance, the mountains loom, yet to be touched by the warm caress of the Montana summer sun. My dad turns up the bluegrass, fingers drumming on the steering wheel as the familiar melodies of Allison Krauss float through the speakers. For a moment, it's a Saturday morning again, and I'm a kid in the backseat, kicking my legs to the beat. I find myself humming along merrily, the past lapping softly at the edges of the present.
The combination of the Montana scenery, the bluegrass music, and my father makes my heart lift with happiness. After six months away at university I had missed this comforting familiarity. I feel an overwhelming sense of ease and of rightness; This is my home and this is where I'm supposed to be.
Finally, we arrive at a hidden creek that is quietly nestled between open fields and cottonwood trees at the bottom of a valley. We're here to fly fish—the rods in the backseat, the water nearby—and I can't help but smile at the day ahead.
I get out of the car, taking a deep breath of the refreshing clean air. The day smells of promise—the promise of an unforgettable day full of fishing, fresh air, and time with my father. I hear the nearby crystal clear creek babble steadily over the river stones, harmonizing with the chirping birds in the trees nearby.
Together, we begin to rig my fly rod: I take it out of its protective tube and put the three pieces together into one eight-foot rod. I attach the reel and string the fly line and tippet through the guides. I hand the rod off to my father. He picks out a small fly, an Elk Hair Caddis, and ties it on with the grace and practice of someone who has done this his whole life. It's comforting to know that after so much time he can still find joy in fishing. I hope to find a lifelong passion myself. Perhaps it could be fishing? With all our gear set and ready to go, we begin wading out into the water.
Even in the growing heat of the summer's day, the spring fed creek is ice cold. The water rushes up around my ankles, and the smooth stones beneath my feet are slick and shift with the slightest movement. I stick out my hand, clutching my dad's hand as I did when I was a little girl just learning to walk. We carefully trek our way upriver, reaching a deep pool along the edge of an undercut bank.
“Alright, we'll start here,” my father tells me, handing me the rod. Despite his love for fishing, when we go out together, he normally lets me fish the most, content to just guide me and cheer me on. I grip the cork handle, testing the weight of the rod. The movement of my back cast feels foreign, and in a panic, I thrust the rod forward quickly. The fly hits the water with a small splash and I see the line is all tangled, forcing the fly to drift awkwardly. I pick up the line from the water and swing it over to my dad to untangle.
“Well we're off to a great start!” I say with a sheepish giggle. I’m embarrassed that I forgot how to do this even though I’ve been doing it my whole life. He untangles the line and throws the fly back out into the water for me.
“Here, try again,” he says. He guides me through the cast. I practice a few more times, my muscle memory coming back to me. I feel ready to take on some fish.
We wander up the creek, stopping here and there to try promising-looking bends.
“Ooh, this is a fishy-looking spot,” my dad says at one particular bend. I look, noting the telltale signs: small lines of foam suggesting aeration and a strong current for flies to get swept down, and trees to provide shade and protection from predators.
“It's real sus-fish-icious,” I agree with him, internally laughing at our silly inside joke. It astounds me that I can identify what constitutes a “fishy” spot. When going out day after day, year after year, with my father, I was able to pick up knowledge he inadvertently passed down to me. I occasionally forget that I'm a product of my family and of my environment, but standing in the cold rushing water, I am reminded of who I am and how I got here.
I cast, aiming at the top of the hole in order to get maximum drift. I go still, nerves on edge. I hear only the blood rushing through my ears and feel the rise and fall of my chest as I breathe quietly.
The fly disappears. My heart stops.
“Set!” Dad says.
I raise the rod quickly. The weight of the living, breathing creature tugs at the other end of my line.
“Strip in!” My father directs me as I quickly draw in the line.
It’s strong, and I am reminded of the ebb and flow of reeling in a fish: I let the line run when the fish pulls hard, and pull it back in as it lets up. I follow my dad's instructions, keeping the rod tip up as the unseen trout races across the current.
My dad steps further into the water, net in hand. I do my best to direct the strong-willed fish towards him, and he reaches out, scooping up the fish.
“Nice brown trout!” he says, looking into the partially submerged net. I walk over to him.
The trout sparkles in the sunlight, its silky body shimmering with flecked bits of gold and brown, and hints of red. Its tail swishes slowly within the net, the water running over it amplifying its elegant beauty.
“Picture?” he asks. I hand the rod to him and wet my hands in the creek water.
When I was younger, I was afraid of fish and would scream and run away if asked to hold one. As I grew up and spent more time around fish (thank you, Dad), I got more comfortable, eventually finding them to be creatures of detailed beauty.
Gently reaching into the net, I fit the head of the fish into my left hand, its pectoral fin between my fingers. My right hand wraps around the back end, the tail fin sticking out behind it. I grin widely and my dad snaps a picture. He holds up the net, and I put the fish back in, letting it get a drink of cool water. After a moment, I pick up the fish again, my dad moving the net away this time. I put the fish back underwater, still in my hands. After a moment, it regains its senses and squiggles out of my grasp and back to the depths of the creek. I give my dad a wet high five. I take the rod again and we continue our journey.
I hook and land a few more nice fish, but when my arm gets tired I hand the rod off to my dad. It's impressive to see him fish; there's a casual confidence in the way he casts, as if the rod is an extension of his arm.
After a few hours, the fresh morning air turns into a heavy afternoon heat that beats down on us. I warily eye a large thunderhead that has been looming all day. The ominous mass seems to be approaching quickly, threatening to release its deluge upon the land.
“Dad, should we be concerned?” I say, pointing at the approaching wall of blackness.
“It's probably fine,” my dad replies while focusing on the water. I continue, trying to ignore the potential threat.
“Dad, I think it's gonna storm, like bad,” I say, a bit more stressed. He finally looks at the sky.
“Yeah, maybe we should head back to the car.”
We retrace our steps, following the meandering creek back to where we started. In the distance, I see sheets of rain creating a curtain in front of the silhouetted mountains. The wind picks up and the remaining blue sky shrinks behind the dominating clouds.
Just before we reach the car, I start to feel some fat raindrops hit my skin. They are cold and crisp, unlike the air that's thick with heat and tension. Without warning, a light flashes, quickly followed by a booming burst of thunder. We dive into the car as the storm finally breaks. I know my dad probably would've kept fishing through the rain, but since he is aware of my penchant for being warm and dry, he gives in and turns on the truck.
“Well, that was a good day,” I tell him. He agrees, and we start the drive back to civilization.
True to Montana fashion, the storm quiets after 15 minutes and the sky brightens. The sun shyly peeks its way out of the clouds, its golden light bathing the land in an amber glow. The land sings with the beauty that is Montana. As we travel back towards civilization, I reminisce about our day, grateful for the beautiful fish we caught, the clear, healthy water of the creek, and the time spent with my father. These memories are precisely the ones that bring me respite as I sit here at university, drowning in a sea of deadlines and stuffy professors. I replay the memories of endless summer days, bumpy gravel roads, and rippling water in my mind, but most of all, I hold onto that unforgettable sense of belonging when I'm away, belonging in my surroundings and with the people around me. This feeling is the touch of warm Montana sun on my skin, of a hug from my father after a long day of fishing, and the feeling of home in every sense of the word.
