"We Keep On," They Say

A fire was roaring in Gila National Forest. We saw evidence here, over seven hundred miles to its north. Smoky haze filled the air, which was more than enough to drive canyon residents away from their coffee and papers, down to the corner store on highway 72 (which runs the gamut from Coca-Cola to fishing licenses, paper plates to instant rice -- with a post office and veterinary clinic to boot). It’s the headquarters of all happenings: accidents, road conditions, lost dogs, power outages, pay phone. And the place for reassurance that our homes would not shortly be up in flames.

The smell was faint, but it was there -- as if my friend at the top of the ridge was grilling breakfast. I wouldn’t put that past him, but it turns out it was just thousands of acres of New Mexico charring to a crisp. Fired up winds sucked up the continental divide with all the power that my old vacuum has lost; and the front range was hazy, like the Norlin Quad on the 20th of April.

Now, Jay always says to let the weather tell you what to do, to tell you where to go. Play the hand you’re dealt, he says -- not what you’d like to have been. When you’re given a full house, don’t pine for four of a kind. He seldom makes plans of where to fish more than a day ahead of time and sometimes changes the morning of. Although, I should be clear that this is not ficklery of a fair-weathered soul; rather, it’s the simple fact that on a moody, overcast spring day, the midges will be popping off the Big Thompson, and the bass fishing will be, well, not so good. Sometimes, we go purposefully towards the bad weather. But sometimes not.

Let's go!

A few days after the fire started, the weather turned – a forecast falling from the upper 70s to 60s, and 80s to 70 in the flatlands. Although less smokey, the fire and the wind continued -- in the end, bringing danced for rainclouds. However, my parents were visiting (Jay’s sister Eva was, too), and we had promised them some warmwater fishing, a little bit of the Midwest, a little bit of home here on the high prairie. My sister Erica had even given up a day of crimpy highcountry boulders for it. And so we packed and loaded up three fly rods, two spinning rods, a bag of snacks, and a Banjo.

And we went with the plan.

As we walked to the pond, the wind blew harder, and my hat off.  “Aw, it’s always worse on a ridge,” Erica encouraged -- trying to stay positive, trying to be more like mom...a never ending storehouse of optimism. We all hoped that when we got to lower ground we’d be sheltered a bit. But my hope is always tempered with just a pinch of doubt. The good sort though, the sort that keeps you fully awake.

And watchful.

The water was cool, numbing to wade – about as useful to our cause as a fart in a mitten – and still, the wind blew. Hard. But we all leaned into it and kept on. After all, that’s what Blocks do, I’ve always been told, we keep on. And I’ve also always been told that hard work will, in the end, be rewarded...it will pay off. I’ve always believed the former is true, the latter remains, however, experientially only an ideal. My dad always told me that there are never excuses for quitting, going back on your word, or stopping when the going gets hard. You put your head down, dig in your heels, clench your teeth, and you pull. You do your best because you never know when it will be required. Life has a way of testing us, I’ve found.

My mom Sue, with a Green Sunfish.

And the weather has a way of proving itself right. No bass for you, the pond snickered, hour after hour. We all heard it -- above a few carp caught, and my mom’s giggles over the self-indulgent bluegill and green sunfish nabbing out from rocks for her fly. Yet we stayed -- because of stubbornness, and because of curiosity – which, I believe, you’d find to be the largest part of a fisherman’s brain if you were to diagram in bright colors according to thought patterns.

And then suddenly, nearing the end of the day, nearing the time when you put on the fleece you packed for the just in case of Colorado weather, and nearing the time when your stomach starts to rumble you home -- the wind stopped, dead in its tracks from tiring us out. Hatching bugs and feeding fish began pimpling the surface, as if it had in an instant entered adolescence.

And as rods bent, faces turned upwards with grins and hollers and whoops.

And I smiled, knowing that hard work does pay off in the end.

At least, sometimes.

My dad Bryan with a very nice bass!

It had a large mouth...

Eva -- with a big grin. And bass too.

"Oh hey!" Erica caught "a miniature fish!"