Beer in the Headlights

Not yet. But soon.

It wasn't all that long ago, but at times it feels like forever, that my life was pretty simple. I worked, ate, cooked, slept and went fly fishing. I used to fish a lot. I mean a lot. Like pretty much every weekend and almost all my vacation time.

Most of my time fishing spent chasing trout in the tailwaters and creeks of the Southeast. I also tormented bass, bream and saltwater species, but trout were my favorite quarry.

I've always enjoyed the places where trout reside. Such locales are usually quieter, cooler and more bucolic than the norm. Fly fishing for trout brought me peace in the form of quiet time on the water spent with good friends. Over time it also brought in some money as I started to guide part time.

And then came the kids...

Just over two years ago the Mrs. and I were blessed with the adoption our son Connor - a fireball of energy and unrelenting enthusiasm. Four months after that our daughter Riley was born to us. Since then she's grown and developed into a charming and ebullient toddler. The intervening time between the arrival of our children and now has been unkind to my hobby of and passion for fly fishing. Short local trips are all I've been able to muster.

Until now.

This coming weekend my father-in-law and I are lighting off to the mountains of North Carolina to enjoy the bonanza of caddis fly season. We've reserved a cabin and are in the process of planning the weekend's menu; dinners from the Dutch ovens, piping hot and ridiculously strong coffee from the trusty stainless steel French press, breakfast from the griddle and streamside lunches meant for quick consumption.

We'll be fishing a river with which I was once rather intimate. I know how and where to navigate the shoals and gravel bars while wading, where the fish hold and the right place from where to fish each pool and run. Fond memories of plentiful catches have been rushing back as of late. I've been envisioning myself standing waste deep alongside a favorite run, my arm reached out high while I guide my rod and line to extend a nice drift - then the water's surface is broken by the smooth head of a trout, followed by a tail slap. A flick of the wrist sets the hook and the dance of give and get commences as I bring the handsome fish to hand after that joyfully tense moment of a the first fish of the season on the line.

I can't wait.