The hands of my watch were nearing 8:00 pm, and the river was eerily deserted; fishing holes that held multiple fisherman just hours before, were now empty. 

Jeff and I approached our last run of the day. Side-by-side we cast into the slack water of the main current, in hopes of one last fish. Pale gray skies accentuated the shadows of the river and made it nearly impossible to track our flies amidst the chop of the riffle. Still we methodically worked the pockets and seams, exploiting whatever ambient light was left in the canyon, until one of us finally called it quits.

“I think I’m gonna head back,” I shouted from upstream. “I can’t see a thing!”

“I’m with you man,” Jeff yelled in response. “Let’s go find Joel.

The fishing had been slow. Each of us had a couple of trout to net, but that was it. A bump in the flows and the off-and-on rain may have had something to do with it. Either way our legs were tired – exhausted really – and we were ready to call it a day.

Making our way streamside, Jeff and I ducked into the thick of the willows. Intentionally, we kept our rod tips high as we maneuvered a well worn path back to the road. Ominous clouds billowed overhead and flashes of light filled the evening sky. What was once an intermittent shower had now become a cold and constant rain.  

Unmoved by the weather Jeff and I walked a slow but deliberate pace back towards our vehicles. We watched a cluster of low hanging clouds settle into the valley, they added an element of mystique to an otherwise sullen landscape. We spoke of the day, the fish we’d hooked and lost, and how we should grab a beer sometime to catch up. As we passed back over the river we took one last glance upstream. From this vantage point, even in the fading light, we were able to make out rough shapes along the river bottom. We searched for trout tails or any movement at all, but found nothing. 

“I wonder if the fish are just as tired as we are,” I asked Jeff, as we both stood staring over the bridge. 

“Maybe they’ve called it a day as well, Jeff replied, wiping a drip of water from the brim of his Orvis hat.

We continued our walk along the road and through the little town of Deckers. It too was buttoned up for the night. The only resemblance of life came from a single neon sign that flickered insistently from inside the general store. It flashed a bright and reddish hue through a rain soaked window pane. It reminded me of the time my son and I had stopped there for milkshakes, on a much warmer day.

I have so many memories of this river. 

Jeff and I finally hooked up with Joel at our parking spot, and after some wet fist bumps we split for home. I circled my truck back towards the north and followed highway 126 up a long and winding set of switchbacks. Chilled, I cranked the heat to full bore and finished off the last part of my beef jerky. I spun up one of my favorite tunes and let it soak my soul.

I’ve always enjoyed the road home after a good day on the river. It gives me a chance to think back on things I guess. Today was no different. The melancholy of the mountains, and the thought of good friends fishing shoulder to shoulder in the rain, lulled me into a state of contentment like no other.

I turned to look out my window just as the canyon opened up into the expanse of the valley. Lush vegetation rolled out across the countryside, so green it almost seemed unreal. There was the river too, up to its banks with runoff, carrying with it snow melt from some distant peak the other side of the divide; it cut a hard, but meandering line through the center of the valley, separating the east from the west. It was beautiful.

I sat with my thoughts, as I continued my drive up the mountain. I could hear the whistling and sighing of my tires as they rolled over the wet and uneven pavement. Oncoming headlights pierced the twilight and reminded me to stay my side of the double yellows. I blinked the tired from my eyes and starred through a misty windshield.

I was almost home.