Where The River Runs

Last weekend, when we were in Pennsylvania, we found ourselves on the banks of the Neshannock River. We were supposed to be shopping, but instead, our friends walked the streets of the small village, and we stayed on the bank of the river and watched the fly fisherman do their thing. We didn't even talk about it, both of us just gravitated towards that water.

I think we needed to breathe. We've been soooo busy.

It was beautiful. The reflections of the trees in the river. The rocks. Beautiful rocks. The river, looking oh so peaceful, but running at a pretty pace. Is it any wonder ThatManILove loves fly fishing?

We have to get away, and go do this one thing. Go fly fishing.

Last time we went, ThatManILove set me up with all the gear, the waders, everything. We were in Denver. In June of a now way-past year. In June, in Colorado, people, the water is cold! But still, we went. And ThatManILove confesses now that he thought I might stay in the water an hour. I stayed in until dark, him patiently teaching me how to cast my line. Him, tying on yet another fly.

I fell in love with it. It, meaning all. The river. The fly fishing. The experience.

And we’ve not been back. Not once. The closest we’ve been happened last weekend. We live in the desert...have to travel to get to water. And lakes are closer than rivers.

But after last weekend, I’ve been thinking a lot about the peace on that Neshannock River, and that quiet place ThatManILove needs from time to time. Creative souls do, ya know. They need to regroup and get their creative mojo back. They need quiet.

I think I’ll surprise him. Set up a trip just for fly fishing, and nothing else. No visits. No business.

Just fly fishing.

And if he wants to fly fish alone, I'll just go down to the river from time to time, be quiet and take pictures. I'll love that. But more than that, I'll love that he's doing what he loves...fly fishing.