Wild Faith

Where he meets you.

The cool of a morning makes you settle into your layers. You're grateful for that last cup of coffee.

"leave it on the water" you remind yourself as you approach the bank.

A deep breath accompanies the view… mountains sprawling around you, a rolling fog dressing them. A deer slips silently to the edge of the water, noticing you almost as though you were a fixture it expected to see there. As if it knows it is apart of the therapy.

A slow, drifting riffle sings its morning song along with the birds. The trees yawn, and you smell their piney breath.  You close your eyes, take in their song, and allow it to bring you back to where it all began. The first adventure and every memory since.

You read the water… eye a seam. 

The tempo takes control. A mend. A drift. 

A scene unfolds and in an instant it’s been a half hour. Your mind has drifted into a cycle of a 10 to 2, 4 count rhythm.

Then, the scream of your reel snaps you back. A trout set. 

A boyhood adventure fulfilled, and the true beauty of the moment unfolds. Your heart could know no purer moment, and in that moment, you are eye to eye with your creator. As real as the beautiful speckles on the trout you hold in your hand.

That is when you realize that all of the negative, heavy, pounding and screaming tempo of what has ailed you… is gone. 

What is left is peace. Silence within yourself. A moment of clarity where, as you are kneel down in the water, holding your speckled prize... you can glance up and almost see his face. Close your eyes. He may not be visible, but you can feel him there.

Take the moment. Soak it in. Talk to him... really talk. Sit with him awhile. When you leave, leave renewed. A new heart in place for a renewed sense of life and purpose. Share it.

That, my friend, is Fly Fishing Faith.

Wild Faith. Find yours.

The cool of a morning makes you settle into your layers. A deep breath accompanies the view… mountains sprawling around you, a rolling fog dressing them. 

A slow, drifting riffle sings its morning song along with the birds. The trees yawn, and you smell their piney breath. 

You read the water… eye a seam. 

The tempo takes control. A mend. A drift. 

A scene unfolds and in an instant it’s been a half hour. Your mind has drifted into a cycle of a 10 to 2, 4 count rhythm.

Then, the scream of your reel snaps you back. A trout set. 

A boyhood adventure fulfilled, and the true beauty of the moment unfolds. 

That is when you realize that all of the negative, heavy, pounding and screaming tempo of what has ailed you… is gone. 

Fly Fishing Medincine.