Sometimes the fishing's only part of it

Author's note: Some of you have asked, at various times, whether I'd reprint some favorite columns from previous years. For those of you who asked, and for those who missed it the first time around, here's an updated version of a favorite. Enjoy!

Sunday afternoon found me with an almost desperate need to go fishing. I felt winter closing in, and in some ways it seemed as if summer didn't really happen as I approached Jan about going fishing.

"I'll be ready to go by 2:30," Jan announces. That gives her time to get some snacks and drinks in the cooler, change clothes and get her fishing gear ready. That's her checklist. It also sends a message: I have exactly half-an-hour to dawdle.

We decided to take my old truck instead of her SUV, as my gear, the camp chairs, water cooler and other necessities are already in it. Prior to the mutual decision-making, I already planned it that way. Sometimes, even a dawdler can be goal-oriented.

When I unexpectedly pull up in front of the fly shop, I ask Jan, "Do you need anything, a fresh leader, maybe?"

"Four-X," she says.

She always needs a fresh 4X leader. I know her answer before I ask the question, and it helps to buffer the unexpected delay.

I make sure to grab her leader first thing through the door. I wouldn't want to arrive back at the truck, an assortment of flies for myself in tow, without it.

I hand her the leader and put the flies on the dashboard tray. A mile or two out of town she picks up the flies and asks, "Which ones are these?"

I describe the flies, anticipating what is likely to follow, and it does:

"Can I have some, or are they all yours?" she asks, innocently, sweetly, coyly. She knows the answer before she asks the question.

"Split 'em, half-and-half," I respond, knowing that she'll probably stash those flies and fish a Brindle 'Chute.

The drive from Hamilton is a tapestry of changing scenes in a mountain landscape painted the colors of autumn, and highlighted by the patches of sun breaking through the gathering clouds overhead.

We arrived at a favorite spot. There is an idyllic beauty to the place, a deep-cut small canyon lined with a myriad of shrubs and trees now turning color, where the little river in the bottom is strewn with dark boulders tumbled from the far canyon wall.

Jan is into her waders and down to the stream while I pick out a rod. I brought several, and finally settled on an old Powell bamboo. It's a sentimental favorite and I haven't fished it for a long time.

While I dawdle, Jan fishes. By the time I reach the stream, she already has one on her Brindle 'Chute.

Once on the stream, the distance between her hurry-up and my wait seems to evaporate. We fish at the same pace, usually within sight of each other, never crowding each other, never too far from each other. Our needs for companionship and solitude are met in each other as we fish.

As she works her way upstream I try several different flies.

I thoroughly enjoy casting the old Powell. There is a rare satisfaction in the rhythmic casts, the mends, the ease and harmony of it.

Occasional leaves drift off the trees and into the river. Yellows and purples and oranges swirl in the foam lines.

I watch. I cast. I stop and watch the graceful and deliberate rhythm of Jan's casts upstream.

The wind that was gusting when we arrived has let up a bit, and the sky is piled solid with gray clouds high overhead. There is a quiet peace to all of it as the day draws to a close.

I linger, make a few more casts while Jan heads for the truck.

When I arrive at the truck the sun has dropped and the air has chilled. We turn on the heater as we leave. She says something about how good a burger would be right now. She's absolutely right.

On our way to a café in Darby I thank her for simply being there with me. She looks at me and smiles. She knows. Woven into the fabric of this day, as many others, the fishing is only part of it.