backlit found fly with chipped nail polish ~or~ girlygirl goes fishing

Valerie

I seemed to be pulling a lot of other people's old, lost lines and hooks and lures out of the lake on our first day out.

This little beauty has a *massive* hook on him, and someone, sometime spent a good long while tying him by hand.
I think its lovely, and it puts me in mind of my grandfather, who tied his own flies and spent decades raising his kids and then his grandkids with the joy of being outside.

The first thing I ever learned to drive was a boat, and the last few days have been very theraputic for me: I've not been fishing since I was about 10 years old.

Casting was interesting for me this time around, because I used a closed reel--something I've *never, ever* used, and a short pole. It took some time to get the feel of the rod, but once I did, and I was able to cast with some confidence, I was pleasantly surprised to learn that muscle memory is a real thing.
Casting into the lake this weekend, that beautiful whizzing whistle that the line makes, followed by the satisfying click of the lock, and the graceful arc the lure makes on its way to the water reminded me of endless summers with my grandparents in the Poudre Canyon of northern Colorado, and the unbelievable sense of space, freedom, and nothing to keep time by (and no need to keep time to anything) except the sun.

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