Confessions of a Cowgirl V
My home state of Montana is a fly-fishing paradise. It’s the kind of stuff that inspires famous novelists and makes photographers giddy.
But not me. I don’t fly-fish. #MontanaFail?
Yep! It’s time again for a post in my occasional Confession of a Cowgirl series, and where would we be without an ol’ fisherman’s tale?
Here’s my brother and me after a childhood fishing trip. That’s right – my socks are longer… and so is my fish!
Don’t get me wrong — I’ve tried fly fishing. I’ve even taken lessons. But really, I’m more a lure and bait fishing kinda gal. (If you don’t know the difference between the two types of fishing, go ahead an Google it. Let’s just say here that there’s a good deal of romanticism built up around fly-fishing in Montana, and bait fishing isn’t quite as glamorized. You don’t see Brad Pitt taking on roles as a worm fisherman like he fly fished in A River Runs Through It.)
As a kid, I grew up fishing with a rod and reel in fishing ponds and small streams rather than in Montana’s wide-open rivers and big streams. And the ponds suited me just fine. For me fishing was more about time with people and exploring the area and less about the elusive Next Big Catch. My dad would take my brother, sister and me out fishing. It was always such a wonderful way to bond with him and with my siblings.
Several years ago I came across my childhood tackle box. I gave it back to my dad, telling him I wanted him to hang on to it so someday he could teach my child to fish. Now that Niklas has arrived, I can’t wait for my father and my son to bond together over the ponds and small streams that are every bit as Montana to me as those of novels and prize-winning photos.
Confessions of a Cowgirl #5:
It’s not the size of the fish or style of fishing that matters, it’s the story and memories that go along with them. Okay, and maybe the size of the one that got away…