horizon

I have always thought that my first writings in this book would be next to a riverbank. In some sense, it's okay that I am sitting on an airplane, far away from the river. When I close my eyes, I am next to that perfect river, the one with the perfectly sized tree. The sun sits west of me, slowly drifting into the sunset, whispering to me, of all the things to be thankful for. The prairie that runs across as far as my eye can see, shows the first signs of seasons changing. The sounds of the flowing river, slow yet powerful, reflects the undeniable passing of time. Time is measured different here, a hatch, the direction of the wind, and sometimes a glimpse of a fish relative to the shadow cast by the tree. It's a place I have never been, but as warm as the bed I sleep in every night.

I guess I like fishing, and most of the stuff that comes with it. I like to catch fish, but I like it just the same when I don't. I have a special place in my heart why I like fishing, but I will share that some other day. The uncertainty of fishing is philosophically something that appeals to me. The possibility, the hope, and the reality (of not catching fish sometimes). It is always a humbling experience, sprinkled with hope exactly where you need it most. I find the time spent sharing the stories of fish you've met, as pleasant as catching one (and sometime the catch is a pound or two larger). I have had the good fortune to meet some good friends in fishing, some of them which I have known for a long time. I am also fortunate that my closest friends have agreed to give fishing a try, and so far we have been walking a road together that leads to lifetime of good fishing.

The horizon that spans in front of me looks different with a fly rod in my hand. I like what I see.