There is nothing better, really,
than a late afternoon on a gorgeous river,
rod in hand,
stalking the next silvery one under gurgling and rocky-mountain-cold waters.
The only way it became better,
was the distance the boys kept
from my fishing,
and my independence as a fisher-lady.
I'm glad the boys let me tag along,
don't get me wrong.
It feels good to walk among men who think like fish,
act like hunters,
and react like guides.
It's an honor really,
to even be invited.
They were there for the float goo you put on your fly so it floats along just so,
and they were there when the beer I nursed needed replacing.
But they kept to their own rods,
and let me just do my thing.
I fished, drank barely-cold PBR, and was in charge of myself.
For the most part,
my fishing line was entirely my own business,
and was entirely my own responsibility.
Which is truly a great feeling.
One fish on, lost....
mostly because I'm out of practice.
But it was not someone else's fault,
just mine alone.
It wasn't a failure.
In fact, it was a celebrated cheer along the bank....
along with laments that "that bugger WANTED what you had there, girl!"
not some indication that I were a somehow inferior female,
crashing a dude's weekend of ripping river-monster lips.
Setting a hook is something I have yet to master,
but was glad to have the chance to practice on these hungry fishes.
And for a fairly manly fishing trip,
that's saying' something.
So thank you, boys,
for just letting me. be.