a good morning.

I woke to my alarm, and the feeling as if my head had just hit the pillow. It was mid July, and every year I spend more time on the river and less time on my sleep score. Shorts and my favorite hoodie laid on the floor as I placed the hat that has conformed to my head back in its rightful place. I started my truck and let it do its morning routine as I hooked up the trailer. A recognizable feeling greeted me as I woke with a purpose and a place to be. Shuffling through Marty Robbin’s hits, I watched as the sun peaked over the mountains.

I drove with the same excitement and appreciation as I did the day before, and the month before that. With very few trucks on the road, my raft followed me as if it was plagued with the same adventurous spirit. A coffee and two of my favorite scones waited at the to go table. I waved to the familiar faces behind the counter and echoed in response with a “good morning”.

As I climbed back into my truck toward my favorite place in the world I thought - “it really is a good morning”. The morning is good and it signifies what was old is being made new. A simple concept but one that is repeated daily. Perhaps most fly fishing guides choose such career paths for massive fish and an office full of water. But there are many secret blessings hidden in the world of a guide. One of these for which is the blessings of the morning. Maturity has brought reflection to the moments that bring unpronounced peace, and the morning while only lasting a short time, greets us everyday. I pulled into our meet spot where my friend and fishing guide waited with a coffee in hand. He told me good morning and I responded with softness “it sure is”.

I write this, not to persuade you into the wilds of being a fly fishing guide but rather share in the warmth of mornings. You may find routine and the elements of dark to light and cold to warm transgress with you in mind. We progress with the sun from a state of rest to the composure of purpose. My mom has echoed these words since I was a child and only until recent have I been able to enjoy them deeply.

“Arise, go forth, and conquer”.

The making of a fly fishing film

The morning chill crept in as I stepped out of my truck and into the dew filled grass. My hands, stuck in habit, started to pull at the canvas that cased my fly rod. Etienne, the camera man, halted my addiction and I was reminded why I was really here. This was one day of many, lost on the river attempting to film the art and the “why”behind fly fishing. We crashed through the brush and meandered our way to the river, graced by a spring morning in Montana. Our production crew consisted of Etienne and his camera and me and my fly rod. I knew this story was one the river was able to tell on its own, and I was happy to be there to listen.

A recent article about the connection between people who fly fish and people who write surfaced in my mind. Thinking about my favorite fly fisherman, I thought about the span of their thoughts and how in one way or another, everything came back to fly fishing. As I sat on a stump engrossed by the river, the parallel between life and fly fish floated through my mind. “Rivers in Time” was simple, but highlighted the side of fly fishing that most don’t see when they first start. I sat there and felt the sun on my face and wondered what the camera saw. Would the audience get bored, or distracted by the scenery, or confused as to what I was even talking about. I knew since the start of the film, I wanted to convey the side of fly fishing that goes far beyond the scope of fish, and in someway show how fly fishing isn’t at all what we first think it to be. It’s been my experience that most people only ever want to talk about is fish, and the poetry and art that is western fly fishing only causes confusion and disassociation. I wondered how the new wave of nerdy fishing geeks would process a film that didn’t come with reggae music. I felt the cork on my fly rod and the start of a tear, and I slid my hand back into its desired place. It fit better than anything else in my life, as if a fly rod was apart of me. I knew in that moment that the people behind the camera may not know at first what I was talking about, but maybe we would leave them to wonder. I would spend the rest of the morning casting in rhythm and wandering around each bend, sometimes forgetting a camera was watching me.

That night, my homework was the best kind. As I glared at the blank page in front of me, tears trickled down my cheeks. The words slipped out like they had already been written. They came from a place not looking forward but back, being spoken from experience and journey. As I wrote the voice over for the film, I imagined what the camera saw, wet feet and all. Would I be able to describe in detail for people to fully understand what I was hoping to convey? Could people really see that fly fishing has more to do with ourselves, and less to do with fish? A journey of ten years now summarized to a page stared back at me, and for the first time it all made sense. This film was not one for the front row, or the new generation of hooded fly fishing bandits. It was a film for the 14 year old me, wading in the river filled with confusion, not just about flies, but about life. My struggle to understand how to fly fish coincided with my struggle to understand life, and the two became one. This film is light in a dark room that is a beacon of clarity and freshness. It might leave you asking yourself why you should get your feet wet, and that in itself is enough for me. But it also might leave you wondering why you fly fish and if you can summarize your purpose to one individual sentence. And after a long journey, you might realize that the purpose for why we fly fish and why we get our feet wet end up being the same answer.

If you are interested in watching the film “Rivers in Time” by McKenna Hulslander and Etienne Surrette it will be joining the Trout Film Festival by Orvis and Fly Fusion Magazine this fall. Follow on social for info on select showings.

Backcountry Bulls

Rummaging through my basket of cords I knew the charger for the inReach could be lost within any inch of the house. Unplugging my battery that felt like the weight of a brick, I set yet another thing to be charged on the counter. Making my millionth trip to the garage, I took one more glance at the massive tarp on the garage floor that displayed all of the necessary gear I had slowly accumulated that was supposed to somehow fit in my pack. I grew up chasing my brother, and the fish in this river each summer, but had never ventured this far to its source. Selecting my dry flies carefully, I started to place each one in my fathers old fly box. On one side of the box were various dry flies that were more familiar to me than the calluses on my hands. On the other side I placed various streamers that seemed as foreign to me as the moon. Having spent hours on the phone learning all I could with people who dedicated their lives to such places, I marveled at the idea of finally catching what I had been chasing for years. Having never caught a bull trout, I wondered what it would be like to finally see one in my net. The excitement, and nerves in my stomach brought an even deeper attention to detail, and an even heavier pack. 

In the early morning I was up before my alarm, and most of the state of Montana. I knew the first day was going to be hardest and I braced myself, and my feet, for the grueling trip up and over the mountains. Gaining almost three thousand feet of elevation in six miles we made it to the first lake that hid in the saddle of snow capped mountains. Filtering some cold creek water, and opening my favorite freeze dried lunch, I was reminded we were not even a third of the way there. Maybe it was growing up with a brother where I feared I would be left behind, I indistinctly found myself racing to put as many miles behind me as possible. Forgetting to enjoy the wild country that was before me, we passed a pack of mules and a cowboy swaying to the rhythm of his company. Little would I know that would be the last human for the next few days. It's a wonder why we spend so much time and effort to escape to such places with the intention to be present in them, but more often than not I found myself falling asleep to the repetitive steps, and my mind wandering to other places. Maybe it's the way the woods makes us feel, and exposes the parts of life that we feel uncertain about. Either way grace seems to surround me and I felt more at home than ever.

Crossing over a creek my bare feet, with the start of blisters, loved the feeling of the cold rushing water. I'd like to believe that these rivers were a part of me somehow, I depended on them just like my veins, and they ran directly to my heart. Ten miles in, I took my pack off and leaned up against a large tamarack tree, opened my first bag of candy and sat with not a care in the world. 

Somewhere along mile thirteen and fourteen we ran across a waterfall that seemed hidden away from any map. Taking only a moment to enjoy it, we trekked on. Crossing over various other creeks and passing old fire burns, my back made it clear of all the ways I had misused it, and my feet started to look like a blistered mess. I dove back into my candy and started to hum to my favorite Willie Nelson song. It was about 7 o'clock and we had about five more miles to go and were yet to eat dinner. Putting my pack back on I felt every ounce of its uncomfortable weight on my shoulders. I told myself I could do it, only half way believing it. We would pass another large burn filled with wolf tracks and bear scat along with the occasional bone. As the sun slowly crept behind the mountain we could see its orange reflection reminding us light was slipping away. We came to a large creek with big deep blue pools and trees stretched far across it. I marveled at the idea of how many rivers were out there unknown to anyone, as if such places were created regardless if someone was there to appreciate them. I watched it as it meandered through the woods, and everything that hurt seemed to fade away. I could see myself wading across on each corner with only the elk to talk to and the wind to hear. A version of myself lived here, and I left her to wander. 

We would hike until 10:00 o'clock, coming into the lake just as the last light of the day faded away. Math was never my best subject, so misjudging our nineteen mile hike for a total of twenty three miles did not come as a surprise for me. During the night I could hear fish rising to the various hatches of bugs that filled the water, and our tent. 

That next morning, I could feel the sun start to warm my face, and the sound of a bush plane far in the distance. I eagerly put my fly rod together like a habit I couldn't rid myself of. Seeing my first cutthroat rise to the surface I screamed in excitement. Heaven looks different to everyone, but I knew this was mine. I peered into the blue water wondering how long I could stay here and how many different fish would come to greet me. Then I saw him, hiding behind a large log at the mouth of the river. Swimming like a great white shark, he looked as though he was the wisest bull trout of them all. It was like hearing the story of Casper the ghost, but then actually seeing him in your attic. Tying on my first random streamer I threw it as far up in the river as I could, and let it drift down. A small part of me believed I might have been able to hook him on my first go. Tying another, and another, none seemed to spark his interest. Lost in confusion, I got out of my packraft and slowly crept down the river bottom. Clay filled my toes and the freezing water numbed my legs. As I crept further down the river and more into the lake, the water rose over my waist and up to my chest. I threw my streamer up river and waited for it to swing down right in front of his nose, and then quickly stripped it back up stream. Almost immediately he hit it and ran deep down and as far as he could go. My reel zipped to its backing as I struggled to keep tension on the line and my head above water. My fly rod had never bent to such drastic lengths and I could feel my arm tense from the fight. In my heart I attempted to enjoy every second but wavered in fear of him breaking off. I reminded myself of the over pouring joy regardless of what was in my net but wondered if this was the moment I had been waiting for. Then I saw him. White outlined his fins as I noticed the pink spots that shimmered in the crystal clear water. As I scooped him into my wooden net I wondered if I was the first person he had ever seen, and for a moment my world flipped upside down. Staring into his thick black eyes, shaded with blue and enclosed with a hazel brown ring, I saw them shift to meet mine. I was mesmerized by one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen, yet it wasn't the fish, it was the story that I had somehow missed. Seeing the faint reflection of myself in his deep black eyes I wondered what he saw. A part of me would like to believe he felt I was worthy enough to experience him, and maybe he saw a young girl that had spent hot days and long nights chasing after him. A girl that would spend summer after summer foraging up river to untouched water where she might find him. She would spend her nights sleeping under the stars deep in the woods surrounded by what used to scare her, but now felt in place. Most evenings she would return with wet shoes and scratched legs, feeling vulnerable enough to lend herself to experience such a place. She would eventually learn that a piece of her belonged here, untouched and discovered only by her. As he peered back at me, maybe he saw the story of a girl who thought she was out to catch a fish, but found something entirely more. The story of a girl who loved such a place deeper, and stronger because she was willing to take all that it would give her. She spent her days looking for him, but ended up finding herself. 

As I felt his tail slide from my fingers I knew I could keep him only for a moment, and some part of me felt the same. Only here for a moment, and never meant to be kept. Maybe one day I would return much older, and he would recognize me, not by the wrinkles on my face, but the love in my heart. He could see the girl who ventured far into the woods that grew into a young woman who still elicits the spirit of her childhood. As I watched him swim away I knew in that moment this feeling couldn't be summed up to words, and this story was one to be held closest to me. Not as the story of a fish, but the story of a girl. 

Turning around I saw my fly line wrapped around each leg as if I had gone to war. I felt air come back into my lungs as if I hadn't been breathing. That day we would pack up camp, and soak in the sun as we paddled across the lake. The lake eventually would merge into a creek where we swam and I could feel the cold water run through my hair. Only a mile hike from the creek to the river, we pulled the packraft over our heads and attempted to make it. There is something about carrying a boat on your head that reminds you of high school, and ideas only your brother could think of. Staring at my feet and I yelled out hoping to not spook Mr. Griz as I knew he would probably express the same concern as my mom, had she seen us. Sliding down the side of the bank I recognized the rush of cold blue water and comfort poured over me. That evening we would float dodging big rocks and cliff walls. As I laid back and peered at the moving clouds, I could feel the rushing water underneath me. It glistened over rocks in a million different colors and I didn't care where it would take me. We would find another sandy shelf and set up camp. Fishing until I could no longer see my fly in the darkness I wandered back watching the last bit of sun fall behind the mountains. Leaning up against a log, whiskey burned my lips and the glow of the fire reflected off my face. The sound of the night reminded me it was my turn to sleep as I crawled into my sleeping bag passing the torch to the wild things that came out at night.

We would spend the next day floating out the rest of the river and making it back to the truck in the late evening yet again. After returning home I found myself even more appreciative and graced by places I had known all my life. Somehow, in some divine way, it seemed to balance every other part of me. I would return to work as a fly fishing guide and begin each morning asking myself how I could express this feeling in my heart. Maybe it goes unwritten, or maybe it's something that's hidden deep in the smile on our face. Either way, these places have become a part of us, and us a part of them. That bull trout is the story of a fish, and the story of a girl, and also the story of the people who loved them enough to protect them. It is the story of conservation.  

Going through pictures with my grandpa, he was far more interested in the story I would tell, maybe because he hates phones, or maybe it's because my story tells more than words. A man now in his late eighties marveling at the idea of his granddaughter catching far more fish than he ever did. It is the story that requires no words or understanding, only a heart that is willing to listen.

Because its AWESOME.

I was just like most every college student ever. I would study as little as possible, and spend most of my time out with friends. I can remember my older brother teaching the importance of scheduling my week so I didn't have to spend my weekends trapped inside. But there I was on a sunday afternoon fixing the red highlights on my paper. I was attempting to explain why I thought fly fishing was the best thing in the world. I was frustrated and unable to express to my professor, who resented me for even picking the topic, why I'd rather spend my evenings chasing trout than attend her seminar in the library. I was on my last edit with shoes already on and keys in hand trying to answer her bolded red letters that asked “but why is fly fishing important to you?”. I remember typing out because it's awesome knowing it wasn't going to meet the requirement of a proficient paper and that I'd have to tackle it when I got back. Maybe as a freshman I wasn't mature enough to think on the question long enough, or too focused on getting out the door to take time to thoroughly answer the question. But either way, despite graduating, I'd like to go back and change my answer. 

I was fourteen the first time I attempted to fill my dads neoprene waders. I could barely hear him yelling at me over the loud sound of the water I was standing in. He kept pointing to the massive rock on the far side of the river where a trout would rise ever so often. I was the one with the fly rod in hand and a fly at the end of my line, but between me and that trout, it seemed the roles were reversed. I was hooked, immediately mesmerized by a world I had only just met. I

had lost my fly hours ago and had no chance at reeling in the spotted pink belly cutthroat I knew was in there, but it didn't matter. I'd be back next weekend, and the weekend after that. It would take until the next summer until I would master the basics of tying on the proper leader and twisting my tippet into a strong enough knot, but even my failures brought a feeling I couldn't explain. I'd learned curiosity was my greatest asset and if I was willing to scrape my knees to get to the next corner I might find a place no one had been. 

That first summer dad would bring home magazines that would consume me for the rest of the night. On one page was a painting of an old man in a river with his cast stretching long behind him. He didn't seem out of place, almost as if the beauty of the painting needed him there. Instead of trying to take a piece of the river, it was more like he found his place in it. I was unsure how something as simple as fishing could be so fulfilling. I began to understand that fly fishing, to those who understand, captures as much elegance and grace, as fish. 

It would take me sometime before I would return to that corner of the river confident in my cast and the fly on my line. But before I knew it, that same girl was standing on the same corner, holding the same rod, opening the same fly box, but everything had changed. Four years had flown by and I was a month away from leaving for college. The flies staring back at me didn’t instill the same confusion, and instead I was greeted with familiarity. I tied the fly exactly like I had practiced at the kitchen table. The same rock peered at me on the far side of the river like it had so many times before, but this time it didn't seem as far, and the river seemed at peace. My cast landed just above the rock and effortlessly floated down to find itself in the calm next to the wild river that surrounded it. I knew it, I knew I had him. The splash of his tail brought me right back, except this time I found myself joining the picture that had come to life. I was

mesmerized not just by his spots, or the blue that hid behind his eye, but the whole encounter; The painting had come to life and I found myself inside the frame. 

We connect with a world with a completely different perspective, grounded in appreciation. Fly fishing challenges our patience and our pride. It is my true belief the best fly anglers excel not only because of their skill and knowledge but their perspective, and that perspective is sometimes hard to find. We view it as a connection, a rhythm, and an art. It's for the people who have love and appreciation without complete understanding; that we would be willing to meet the world below the water’s surface without the comforts of ours. When you reach such a perspective you realize the scary and uncomfortable parts create an even deeper love. The goal is not merely catching fish, but to simply partake. Few things in life give you the opportunity to hold the past, present and future in your hands, and not every angler will experience this power. But to some patient anglers, fly fishing is the vehicle for which we travel through time. In those moments on that water, I can feel my past and the present merge into one, and if I was lucky my future would be there too. 

My original answer isn't wrong: fly fishing is awesome. Fly fishing gave me Sunday afternoons with dad. It gave my grandfather someone to pass down stories and old fly rods to. It gave my brother a reason to bring his sister, and it gave my mom a story to hear when we got home. It gave me more than I could ever possibly capture on paper. It gave me a framed picture that sits on my desk that isn't confined to a single date but is alive, almost as if a piece of me will always be standing in that river. It is a reminder of a world that is, well, awesome.