A Year Forgotten

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It’s New Year’s Eve, 2018. I don’t really celebrate the Eve, or the Day, any more than I do any other day away from work. So yeah, I’m ferociously jubilant at the moment, otherwise known as sitting at home, where it’s quiet and warm.

That tick of the clock marking the passing of each year is a nice reminder, sure. It cues memories. And these memories, if we so indulge, matter more than anything else we do this eve, more than parties, more than fireworks, more than resolutions, no matter how resolutely made. But I forgot this year.

I forgot to write, well sort of. It’s embarrassing and inexcusable. I know nobody really follows this blog so closely as to notice but, yes, it’s been more than a year since the last story. But we do crest another year tonight, so I’ve been looking back, recalling the memories, recalling the year, and what I’m seeing is that my writing slump wasn’t actually a mistake, a bout of forgetfulness, or a simple little oversight. It was a real consequence of a real confluence of currents. A push strong enough to throw me off balance, rocks slippery enough to turn me back toward the bank, hydraulics strong enough to eat away the river bottom beneath my boots. I caught glimpses of it over the last 13 months and can see more clearly now that last post, an ode to Dad at his passing, joined midstream midlife currents and exhausted my reserve of ideas/muses/will.

The sometimes stoic in me is telling me not to worry, that things beyond my scope of control, ought to also be outside my scope of concern. But stoics are usually not much fun and angsty commiseration has its appeal. So if you’re hearing me, if you get me, if your year went anything like mine, let’s take a moment to whine.

Ok, that felt cathartic as it could, but now I have to try to make things right, for the blog’s sake at least. So, I’m going to catch you up on 2018’s outdoorsyish moments with one picture and one sentence for each. Guess I better make them count.

Winter surprised us, not with snow, but with stunning fish on short, but sunny, days.

Seasons soon over, Baylee and I made it one last time to the top of the chukar hill in early February.

The long white cloud continued to mystify with mist, many miles, but mostly a sort of magic I’ve just never felt elsewhere. (One photo doesn’t do justice to New Zealand.)

Summer guide days are some of the most giving.

This guy is an artist, no really, he is (check out Tim Johnson’s work) and I need to thank him and all the friends I fished with this year.

Solo missions made for some funky photography, but days like these work wonders for the introverted anglers among us.

This was just a sweet pic of a little brown on a bed of watercress in a tucked away corner of a tiny spring creek.

Things seem clearer and much more straightforward at altitude.

Pursuits outside, like archery hunting, usually don’t offer rewards at a ratio equal to the time and effort expended; something else you learn at altitude.

Fall guide days: also a lot of fun.

You can really miss a dog, especially when you weren’t expecting to have to: Rest in peace, Baylee, May 2014 – October, 2018.

Puppies grow up really fast, but grow out of things quite a bit too slowly (welcome Porter).

The natural world is governed by natural laws, naturally. What will be will be. However, we need not simply ride along. We’re granted a measure of time, energy, and humanity. With that, we can go insert ourselves into the beautiful chaos of it all. I didn’t write a whole lot this year but I’m seeing that I had a lot to write about, and for someone who writes about fly fishing, bird dogs, the outdoors, and the nature of things, that’s almost as good. Thanks 2018.

4 Comments

  1. Loved it all. Happy 2019 and thanks for making me feel supported through a tough few years.

  2. Great job Jake. I feel for you and not getting around to doing things you really meant to do. It is always great to get a notification that you have posted another piece! Here’s to getting more of the things we mean to do, done in 2019.

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