We were only two full days into our 10 day trip, but I felt as though we’d been in camp for weeks. It could be the comfort and confidence of being with friends. Committed friends. Kindred spirits. It could be the familiarity of the river, the muscled spirits that patrol its currents and the rough-hewn stone, sage and willow landscape that cradles them — a memory I carried in my soul, powerful as the birth of a child, since exactly one year ago.

Night was close. The translucent shadow of dusk having already soaked its way up the near canyon wall. A fat, full blue moon was due to rise, but looked as though it would be buried in the first cloud cover of the trip. The fleeting scent of rain tangled with the musty sweetness of sage on the heavy warm breeze. We grabbed our gear and crossed the river for a dusty cattle road on the opposite hillside, leaving the rest of camp to unwind and put their feet up at long day’s-end. Camera, lenses and tripod carried efficiently in his pack, Grant had a spot in mind where the road rose to meet the far ridge and, hopefully, the moon as the clouds cleared. Rods in hand, Rebecca and I eyed the increasing frequency of dimples, swirls and drifting concentric circles on the glass skin below.

As sprawling as the canyon was, the world had shrunk to the immediate universe of our purposeful footfalls and wader-swish. Our talk was soft, muffled by the bigness of the falling night. Here and there the darker shapes of grazing cattle, moving away with nervous, curious awareness of our presence. The night before we had heard coyotes. The shrill and insistent cacophony of barks and yelps sounding closer than they should be. We walked on.

A few hundred yards on Grant found his vantage point and settled into his ritual: backpack down, kneel and breathe and survey, internal inventory of necessary gear translated into deft movement of hands pulling the camera from his pack and intuitively swapping lenses, sit or lie prone, pause to breathe and survey again, viewfinder to eye, aperture, shutter speed, composition, breathe, begin.

By the time Rebecca and I were fifteen paces away he was as much a part of the dark wash of brush as the brush itself. We picked our way down the embankment and across an open area to the riverbank, hoppers still clicking from our path. We waded slowly together out into the glass, catching evidence of rising fish in the splish and frail reflection of what little moonlight the clouds afforded. Riffles a hushed murmur fifty yards downstream.

Wading in a river, casting dry flies to rising fish in the dark is at once a fantastic and terrifying act of faith. As many mornings as I’ve walked blind and by sheer memory into the 5 a.m. woods to find my treestand during archery season, I’ve still never completely lost the cold chill that breathes at my neck and makes me imagine things. Crazy things. Here, I have no memory of this stretch to assuage my lack of sight and as we wade further out and apart the chill is happy to settle back into my mind.

But the chill was short-lived as I settled into my own ritual: stand still and breathe, survey the ringing dark for the slightest sight or sound, unhook the fly from the third snake guide and hold it gently in my loosely closed left fist, strip 30 or so feet of line from my reel and pinch it between my right-hand trigger finger and the cork grip, pull the fly and leader till I hear the slick shoosh of the fly line sliding through the rod tip, lower and turn my head to listen forward, close my eyes, breathe, begin.

Rebecca and I fished our way upstream. We talked, but not much. Our presence there, the faith and confirmation that our casts were finding their mark, Grant coaxing the moon from the road above, stories being passed at camp — and further away, our children, lovers, hard-earned responsibilities and plans for the future — were enough that we both knew what was in each other’s mind anyhow. We closed our eyes and listened and cast in the direction that intuition whispered – there, go there. We let go of the weight of what we didn’t have and embraced the expanse of what we did.

Before we were done our hands held the slight glint of a few heavy fish. The beautiful, cool gravity of life.


Filed under On the water, The road

30 responses to “RISING IN THE DARK

  1. Ross aka the flytyinfreak

    You’ve done it again, left me speechless. I, uh, well,,,, beautiful man, simply beautiful……

  2. What Ross said. A fine and eloquent piece, which made me imagine I was there, which of course I was not. Damn it.

  3. Very nice Matt. Sounds like a religious experience.


  4. “the faith and confirmation that our casts were finding their mark”
    We place a lot on those lines…heavy stuff. And so good, Matt.

  5. Wonderful piece Matt…..and I really enjoyed the photos of the fish from the last post as well. Grant does such a wonderful job! I must admit that I am a little jealous though….that is until the lake run fish distract me from your state of awesomeness…Ha!!

  6. Very well written. I really enjoyed being immersed in the story and drifting out of the cube farm for a brief moment. Cheers.

  7. A little bit of water moves perspective. It takes a lot of water to move boulders. The snake has enough water for both. You’re brave for dark-wading that river brother.

    Great work. Love the photo. Took me right back there. But now I’m dying for fish porn!!?! I could only imagine the giant browns at night out there.

    • fishingpoet

      It is a mighty, mighty river. Truth be told, it was the closely guarded River X that I was wading in though.
      As for fish porn…the guys are still sifting through everything. The only stuff I have was in the last post. Stay tuned though!

  8. Nice….very nice. Drawn in, settled in breath….yeah.

  9. Ooops….I’ve been home a month and still all I see is the Snake River everywhere I look.

    I’ll stay tuned for the pics.

  10. Matt,
    That was a night of fly fishing that I will always hold dear. Unique, quiet, and experienced through the faith of our cast. Your words capture what only could happen in the company of a great person, a beautiful writer and a blue moon.


    • fishingpoet

      Thank you, Rebecca. It’s one that’ll stay with me as well. Here’s to more like it….more frequently than every blue moon.

  11. Great piece Matt. I’ve been there, but on a different river. Thanks for bringing it all back.

  12. Fantastic writing. There is a lot of prose out there, but this really stands out. Keep up the good work.

  13. Wonderfully written. And I too feel that chill that breathes down my neck. It hasn’t gotten me yet.

    • fishingpoet

      Thanks, Steve! It’s a completely irrational thing, that chill. Maybe it’s growing up watching too many Friday the 13th and Freddie Kruger movies 🙂

  14. One evening on the Farmington I was fishing late looking for big fish. I heard an eerie, high-pitched whistling coming from upstream and it was fast approaching. I stood my ground prepared for the worst under-the-bed nightmare to emerge from the dark. I was both relieved and freaked-out when a family of Mergansers floated by. I left the water. I don’t think I’ve fished late since.

    • fishingpoet

      That night we had bats chasing our flies. One even whacked Rebecca in the head. Talk about taking some of the idyllic sheen off an evening of fantastic fishing.

  15. I enjoyed your last blog entry immensely, Matt. Great prose and photo. Very evocative of what sounds like a memorable trip.

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