A lapful of cold water distracted me as the nose of the raft slapped the bottom of the next wave, but my attention refocused on my line as it went taut. I wedged my right foot deeper into the corner of the raft’s floor to steady myself as we continued down another stairstep. When we exited the splashing into a jade-colored pool, the line loosened. I looked down just in time to catch the silvery flash of the Westslope cutthroat that had been tempted by the rubber-legged hopper at the end of my line. The sun hit its lower jaw and illuminated the tangerine-colored slash. It had been years, and this catch had a profound effect upon my psyche.

A couple weeks earlier I’d received a last-minute invite to join a group on Idaho’s Middle Fork of the Salmon River for a weeklong trip. I searched the depths of my basement trying to remember where I had stored a rod years earlier and found it in a dark corner, next to a stack of old paint cans. On the floor next to it a decades-old nylon creel lay where I last remembered seeing my reel, a few fly boxes and, yes, there it was: the flask I received for my 21st birthday. The image of the flyfisherman embossed in its well-aged pewter reminded me of my younger self.

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