Dear Reader: Today we reach the climax in our story about friendship, faith and flyfishing with this fifth of six installments.
Passion
There is a black and white photograph of Dave in midstream looking downstream, water above his knees and an arcing fly rod in his hands. He looks comfortably in charge as he plays a fish that is breaking the surface.
Beyond the photograph Dave would have carefully brought the fish to the net when it was tired. He would admire the colors and markings and assess weight and length. He would gently resuscitate it. And when the tail thrashed as the fish recovered its fight, he would release it.
Fishing was a topic whenever we were together. I wondered at the end if our relationship was that shallow or that deep. Our last years were often spent far from streams. There was a wistfulness in the absence of fishing, reconciled by the quality of memories. We had fished and hiked, driven off-road and probably trespassed a few times in let’s-try-this-once expeditions in the Pennsylvania wilderness during our college years.
Dave was midstream looking downstream on the oncology unit the last time we spoke. It was Lent, the cusp of trout season again.
Continue reading: https://erwatsonblog.com/when-fish-rise/
Practicing, Not Perfect 