My First Time

I was eighteen. A college freshman. A little drunk. We didn’t know what we were doing.

No, no — not like that. My buddies handed me a fly rod and pointed toward a small creek running cold and clear through the southern Rockies.

At some point — more by luck than skill — a trout rose to the fly. I remember the sudden weight, the confusion, and my friends offering advice that was both urgent and mostly useless. Somehow, I landed it — a small wild fish, perfect and entirely unimpressed.

That was my first time.

I didn’t know it then, but that moment quietly rearranged things.

Decades later, I’m still chasing wild trout, especially within their native range.