The Flyfish Journal - The Flyfish Journal 13.4
LIGHT NEAR PRAY
Words: Danielle Davis 2022-06-24 09:44:16
Valley of the Yellowstone,1871 Photo: William Henry Jackson From the Library of Congress’ Miscellaneous Items in High Demand, Prints & Photographs Division, LC-USZ62-109739.
On the water-warped porch of my cabin, I take the last sips of a tepid beer. Thinking too much causes problems, one of them being warm beverages. I stand and lift my waders from the rail where they’re drying out, the light telling me it’s time to fish. On my heels is my old black lab and for a minute I consider bringing her along. We’re in aptly named Paradise Valley, where the summer afternoons are warm, not hot, and the air turns crisp at night. It’s like the place was created with dogs in mind, but tonight I decide to leave her behind—her mind works faster than her hind legs these days and I’m feeling focused.
I take the winding drive through cattle-dotted ranchland toward a town called Pray. It’s the advent of summertime in Big Sky Country, buggy and saturated in late-afternoon sunlight. I think about the universal truth of flyfishing, which is knowing we’ll leave the water better than how we arrived. I guess it’s the simple fact that we’re so occupied with trying to understand fish there isn’t enough time to think about ourselves. Or maybe it’s just knowing that the souls we share the water with are there for the same reasons we are.
At my spot, the backlit cottonwoods stand tall, and I peer through the Yellowstone as it glistens and glides downstream. The mix of shaded grasses and sun-warmed river rocks beckon the wanderers and the weary, which is all of us. I’m met by a man’s voice. “You can have that spot,” he says. “The guy who was using it finally left.”
I call back, “I notice you emphasized ‘finally.’” We’re bonded now. Shy, he steps out of the shadows toward my picnic table, his wiry frame sliding onto the bench like the chance to talk with someone will be fleeting. I guess he’s close to my age, late 30s or early 40s, but his is the kind of age alcohol puts on a person, and the slump in his shoulders tells me almost enough. He says he grew up here “fishing in the cricks.”
“Well, I need your help then,” I say. I’m visiting from Colorado and finding the Yellowstone’s expansive waters—still on the last legs of runoff—an angling challenge. His tired green eyes brighten at the suggestion, and he relaxes into another story, telling me his mother passed away on this very day last year.
“It’s easy for me to remember because it’s my birthday,” he says, turning his face down and away. I think of consoling words but ditch all of them.
“Let’s fish,” I say.
He takes a seat on the stump behind me, offering expert tips as I cast upstream and across. It’s the beginning of a caddis hatch—that time on the river when both angler and trout are prone to bad decisions. Within minutes a fish rises for the foam-bottomed caddis I’ve tied, but I set the hook too soon.
“You’ve got the next one,” I hear. Then he starts to pray. “Please Lord, let this girl catch the biggest fish in the river. Just let her catch one big fish.” When the evening turns gorgeous, all I hear behind me is stillness.
“Look at that light, girl,” his whisper breaks the silence. “Just look at that light.”
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LIGHT NEAR PRAY
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