“I’ve gone to pick up Sam and Eli at summer camp,” the text reads. “Be back at 4:15 or so. Luv you.”
With that note from my wife Elaine, I spontaneously decide to grab a fly rod and a few patterns, walk out our back door, and head for the creek that flows through our 38 acres in Southwest Virginia. I’ve been in a reflective mood lately. Our 43rd anniversary was last week, and at age 69, I’ve come to the conclusion that my life has turned out far better than I ever expected.
All this is on my mind as I traverse the trail to our creek. My destination is a Class I rapid that creates a drop and some slicks, followed by a rock-lined pool—prime smallmouth water. Once there, I begin working a Sneaky Pete popper through the lie, alternating between dead drifting it and making it subtly pop. But bass aren’t really on my mind.
I remembered a time during high school senior year when some of my friends and I had a long discussion about what we wanted out of life. In order, I listed a great wife, kids, a house out in the country in these mountains, and a stream to fish in. The most sarcastic response from a friend was: “First, you’re going to have to find a girl that will go out with you more than once.”
The barb was legitimate. Only four girls went out with me in high school—none more than once. College was only slightly better, and so I was unattached when Elaine and I met at a summer camp, right after college graduation. I fell madly in love the first time I saw her, but she was as indifferent toward me as the long line of prior females.
Which probably explains why, when I encountered her at a camp reunion two years after I had last seen her, Elaine turned me down when I asked for a date, as she did the next four times I asked. The sixth time, she finally agreed to go out. By our fifth date I proposed after she confessed she was in love with me.
Our starter house was one of those places that’s fine for two young people without many possessions, but impossibly cramped by the time Sarah and Mark came along. I would wager that all good marriages are based on being willing to compromise, and after Mark’s birth, I offered Elaine a second proposal.
“You can have built the house of your dreams, even if we really can’t afford it, if you let me have my dream of living in a house out in the mountains, one where I can walk out the back door and go fishing.”
She agreed, which explains why on this sultry summer day I’ve spent the last two hours fly fishing on our creek. The water is low, clear, and hot, the time of day is all wrong, there’s no damsel or dragonfly hatch, and the Sneaky Pete has little chance of drawing a top water strike.
I look at my watch and note that it’s 4 p.m. I can continue on to the next pool or head home and be there when Elaine returns. My love for her clinches the decision. Sam and Eli live with Sarah and her husband David on our land, and Elaine is probably talking with our daughter right now before coming home. The perfect wife and my grandsons living 80 yards away … yes, I’ve been inordinately fortunate.
I realize that I don’t care that the fish aren’t biting today. This is my home water, and sometimes it’s more than enough to fish such a place because it is part of who I am, and it is proof that dreams do sometimes come true. I head for home and emerge from the woods just as Elaine drives down the driveway. She smiles and waves at me, and I am filled with love for her—just like the first time I saw her.