Peering through water, clear yet rippled, trout look like ghosts. Or are they fish at all, it’s hard to tell? Maybe it’s a rock or swirling moss that only mimics a trout tail? Staring, squinting, you see no movement so you step forward ever so slightly. Your instincts were right. The shadow darts away.

Looking up river you notice a seam where fast and slow currents meet. You spot another ghostly form silhouetted against the river bottom, but this time you’re more careful. You move cautiously, casting several feet upstream, watching, waiting, hopeful for that subtle take. From the depths there’s a swirl. Colors of pink and green flash and the curl of a large tail breaks the water’s surface. You raise your rod to set the hook, but are too late. Another miss.

Taking several more steps upstream your attention is drawn to a pocket of water softly churning behind a small-sized boulder. You know the pool is only large enough for one fish, but one fish is all you need. You cast your fly into the bubbly froth and watch it drift for one, two, three seconds. Suddenly there’s a splash! You set the hook and this time connect.

A fly fisherman lives for this moment, that heart pounding thrill of a hook set. Watching a trout come up and out of the water is surreal. A quick turn and run downstream, your mind spins as does your reel. Like that first dip on a roller coaster ride, it’s bittersweet. You follow as far as the current will allow, then hope your leader holds. It does and with some trickery and a little grace, you’re able to get this one to net.

With the river at your feet and a trout in your hand you soak in the moment. Lulled by the ebb and flow of the current you release back to the water what was never yours to begin with. A shadow reappears along the river floor and you linger just long enough to watch it vanish. Content, but not complacent, you slide your net into your belt and head back upstream.

There are few times in life where reality and expectations align. This is one of them. That rare instance where everything around you fades into the background and all that’s left is what’s in front of you.

Is this love of the river an obsession? Maybe? At the very least it’s a craving– a pull toward something beautiful and wild. It’s a feeling so real you want to reach out and touch it, but you can’t.

And so you fish… Chasing shadows of ghosts at your feet, while running from the ones in your past, hoping a trout will show interest again.

As you stand, knee deep in a riffle.