Yesterday marked the beginning of a new decade. The first sentence of a new chapter. And I started it by standing in a river, the same river I have been standing in for twelve years.
Basalt, the Frying Pan River, and the Roaring Fork Valley in Colorado have always held a special place in my heart. The bright maroon rocks and rich green lush covers the rolling hills, to where they hit the Elk Mountains, Sawatch Range and Glenwood Canyon. The Crystal, Roaring Fork and Frying Pan Rivers flow tirelessly across colorful river stones, containing a diverse riparian system that are filled with mayflies and trout. My parents found this area by closing their eyes and pointing to a place on a Colorado map. We precisely drove to that point, camped, and fell in love.
Even though my family’s camping days are long gone, my dad and I have been returning to Basalt for our annual fishing trip at least once every summer. Recently, we’ve been able to make time for two or three trips… allowing our fishing obsession to grow and grow.
It’s that time of year too, where loose cotton drifts through the trees, the sun burns down hot on the Western slope, and the mayflies begin to hatch. And they hatch like crazy.
Blue winged olives, pink pale morning duns, and the famous green drakes line the river for months in anticipation of this grand event. They rise to the surface, one species after another and the trout go nuts. The famous trout in the Frying Pan are no stranger to tricky fisherman—they can easily tell an imitation fly from the real deal by just an ever so slightly off-putting drift. But on the Pan, a hooked fish every few hundred casts or so is worth it.
So even at the end of a hard day fishing, when there are no bugs, no birds, and no netted fish, standing in the river and waving a stick under the Seven Castles is pretty magical. This is why we keep coming back.
We had one of these hard days yesterday. A few fish were caught so we didn’t go hungry, but it wasn’t the epic day we were looking for by any means. After several hours with no sign of a late afternoon hatch, my dad and I loaded up the truck and began our drive back into town. We were a little tired, a little annoyed, but overall incredibly happy.
“Don’t fight the river, dad,” I said out of nowhere.
He smiled and further demanded an explanation.
“My favorite saying, if I got a tattoo, I would get that sentence written somewhere on my body. My old mentor first said it to me, but since my obsession with rivers began, it stuck more and more. Rivers are an allegory for life. Most of the time, it’s peaceful, easy flowing. Flat water. Most of the time, life is good and easy, and everything seems to be like how it’s supposed to. But every now and then, the river becomes turbulent. Boulders, holes, rapids, waterfalls. When you’re on a boat approaching these obstacles, a way through often seems impossible at first. It is only after more time, thought and consideration that a route shows itself. And a route through always shows itself. These turbulent times just so happen to be when the river is able to change its surrounding landscape the most. In life, these turbulent times are when we are able to grow the most as human beings. And, the river always reaches the sea.”
“I like it, don’t fight the river, you can’t fight the river,” my dad repeated.
We drove on back to Basalt, where I thought a bit more about what the next ten years of my life should look like. I will definitely keep returning for the summer hatches on the Frying Pan, and I will (hopefully) catch more beautiful browns in deep holes on a fat dry fly. But if I just remember that wherever life takes me and as long as I don’t fight the river, everything will turn out alright.