Tuesday, November 24, 2009
shit went down at 11:37 PM
I stood on the bank, rod under my arm and a handful of mono beginning to resemble a knot. He needed a dropper, and I was there to help. His fly box opened with a click, and he withdrew a neat looking parachute something-or-other and held it out near my face, "I tied this," the soldier said through a proud smile. It was a good looking fly, and I told him so.
Later that evening the sun had fallen down and the lines had dried and the men assembled near the vehicles at the top of Bitch Hill. Warmed from the mighty ascent we sipped drinks and talked about the day. "I have always liked fishing," one of the men from Ft. Huachuca was saying, "but there is just something about fly fishing. It's different. I don't care if I catch a fish all day, I just love doing it."
How perfect is that?
If you are unfamiliar: Project Healing Waters