Anybody reading this column who is old enough to be a Gordon Lightfoot fan might recognize the title of this column from one of his songs.
Like many of you, and without going into the reasons why, I could use a summertime dream about now and over the next few days I might get one. I'm taking a grandson and his friend camping and fishing. They're wonderful kids and at that barely-teen age when the world comes alive with things to wonder at while they're still young enough to see it all fresh, all new.
We'll fish in the morning and we'll come back to camp when the day heats up and sit in the shade and tie flies. We might do a day hike into the wilderness and take our fly rods along and try to catch some of those resplendently-colored redbelly cutthroats that live in the shaded pools of a rock-bound high-country stream.
The boys are excited. So am I. In my excitement I remember other summertime dreams, other boys, other times.
Rick was an experienced angler. His 22-year-old son Nate was just getting into the sport. When Rick booked a guide trip for the two of them, he wanted a good trip for his son.
When I met Nate I was struck by the ways he reminds me of my younger son Matt. Matt was the same age, and both young men were courteous, bright, warm and with a zest for life lying just beneath a seemingly quiet surface. There was an eagerness, a sense of anticipation, in both the father and son before they left the shop.
Their guide, Chad Williams, chose a stretch of river that hadn't seen too much boat traffic. The hatches were on. There were drakes in the morning and golden stones in the afternoon, and the fish hadn't been jaded by the onslaught of boat and angler traffic that plagued other areas.
Chad is a natural instructor. Between Chad's incessant reminders ("Mend - mend now! Gotta mend!") and knowing which flies to fish, Nate picked up the sport quickly and caught his share of around 50 fish for the day, some in the 18-inch range. You could call it a summertime dream trip.
Another boy, Ryan, had turned 13 the summer I met him. He was a quiet and bright kid who reminded me of my older son Jay.
Ryan's mom emailed me before their family time in the Bitterroot, asking about an evening hatch wade trip for her son. The evening hatch trip suited her budget and would be a special gift for Ryan.
Ryan is a student of the game. When I asked if he could tie a standard clinch knot to attach his fly, he responded, "Yes, but a Palomar is stronger."
"Bingo!" I thought. This kid's got it.
We went to the fly bins and I selected a half-dozen flies and said, "Happy birthday, Ryan." He must have said "thank you" a half-dozen times before he left the shop.
Chris Rockhold had met the family - mom, dad and all six kids - on a chance visit to the shop before Ryan's scheduled evening hatch wade trip.
"The water's a little high, and wade spots are kind of limited right now," Chris mused. "I think I'll float 'em." That's Chris - he wanted to do something special for Ryan. The launch and load, extra effort behind the oars and shuttle outlay were his gifts to Ryan. And it all paid off.
That evening the sun left the sky in a show of glory as Ryan caught several nice fish on dry flies, the best a thrilling 19-incher - a summertime dream fish.
Some summertime dreams are unanticipated. Jan and I found one after a hard-pounding rainstorm.
She usually took reading breaks in her hammock. On this day she read a couple of chapters with her book propped up on the steering wheel while I sat in the passenger's seat and tied a batch of flies in my lap.
When the rain stopped, we stepped into the brilliance of a rain-washed forest with wet needles on trees still glistening and the air fresh with scents of pine and ozone; it was as if we had stepped into a dream.
The fishing, for a few minutes, was exciting, then dwindled off. But it didn't matter.
Sometimes, to quote Dana Lamb, the fishing's only part of it.
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