Everyone splits off, leaving Roxanne and me as we were the last ones to join breakfast.
“Think you’re up for the challenge?” I ask.
“Um,” she says, finishing her last bite of eggs. “I used to fish with my father all the time. It’s the one good memory I have with him. So yeah, I can handle it.” She stands and cleans her plate, stacking it with the others. “I’ll be checking your form though.”
“Oh, really,” I say, chuckling. “Let’s see who catches one first.”
We grab the rods and a couple of packs, and hike east along the ridge, down a slope thick with pine and aspen until the ground levels out near a narrow tributary that feeds the Arkansas. It’s the kind of spot I’ve always kept in my back pocket. It’s not on any guide maps, not big enough for rafting, but just right for fishing and forgetting the rest of the world exists.
The sun filters through the trees in fractured bands, lighting up the water where it skips over rock shelves and pools near the bend. The water is cold enough to bite your ankles, and clear enough to see smooth river stones ten feet down.
I show Roxanne the best place to set up where there are flatrocks for standing and enough open water to cast long and easy. She doesn’t wait for instruction. She’s already rigging her line.
“Still can’t believe you know how to fly fish,” I say.
“You think I can’t cast a line because I’ve been in New York too long, huh?”
“That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking.”
“Can you give me some room so I can prove you wrong?”
“By all means.” I step aside and motion to the tackle box. “Show me what you got.”
She flips open my fly box and doesn’t hesitate. Her fingers move with surprising confidence as she plucks out a pale little fly with a red tail and upright wing. A damn Parachute Adams.
My brow lifts. “Going classic, huh?”
She smirks. “Adams always gets the job done.”
Roxanne threads the tippet like it’s second nature, ties a perfect improved clinch knot, and moistens it with the tip of her tongue before cinching it down. I’m not proud of the sound that escapes me as my caveman brain watches her do this.
“Hmm, what was that sound?” she asks, feigning shock.
“Probably a bear, ready to cast?”
“If you’d get out of my way.”
She casts with a smooth flick of her wrist, the line unfurling in a perfect arc that lands the fly upstream like silk on water. She adjusts her stance on a slick rock like she’s posing for aField & Streamcalendar, ponytail swishing, fly drifting picture-perfect.
It’s the sexiest damn thing I’ve ever seen.
I make a scoffing sound, and she finally glances over her shoulder at me. “What’s the problem?”
“Your form … something’s off.” I slip up behind her, my hands grazing her back.
“You’re scaring the fish,” she says, shaking me off.
I take a step back, and she lets the line drift for a while. I’m about to sit on a nearby rock when … BAM.
The line jumps. The rod bends and Roxanne lets out the softest, most satisfied little “Yes.”
“What … wait. You’re on?” I step forward like she’s reeling in a piece of gold.
She braces her feet, rod tip high, eyes locked on the water. “Looks like it.”
The fish runs, slicing through the current, and Roxanne laughs as she reels it in.
“Don’t horse it,” I manage.
