Those mountains hang over me every time I see them– from the rowdy spiraling drop into the Jackson airport, as I unravel the line from my spool and thread guides on the back porch. The clouds drift over those jagged hills, shadows change and they remain there. They stand and beckon me with a senseless magnetism. In the valley, they hang over me. At home they summon me.
In the late summer, I was privileged to return to “over yonder” and spend time on another adventure with friends in Jackson Hole. For the past twenty years, I’ve fished it upside down and sideways– at first with nubile anticipation, later with alacrity. As I get older and time becomes more narrow and focused, I return to that water with lascivious anticipation. As my countenance widens, I find myself less apt to indulge in being a “dude” angler out there, yet trips often put you together with guys that cast like they are putting spaghetti on a fork. This trip was special, even simple. I was blessed to travel with three friends that had the fever and ambition to wake with the sun and chose hatches and the movement of nature over their watches. We walked (and sometimes talked) and we fished. It could be said that we didn’t slay any dragons, but my mind was eased and my reset button was again, mashed.