In the damp depths of the Olympics

Being struck down by multiple injuries and trudging through years of recovery had knocked my life out of harmony, and learning to adapt to the new reality was a shockingly cold plunge to take. The outdoors, backcountry and mountains were not just a weekend get-away, they were a necessity to life. It wasn't enough to just be in their presence, I had to climb. Yet, that pursuit of mine was physically demanding and the sustained injuries needed attentive care and a dialing back. The struggle was finding the pleasures I encountered when topping out on a summit block high above glaciers or traversing an exposed ridge as clouds spilled over the rocky edges. There was a captivating rush in mountaineering but it also went beyond that feeling, and once injured I went into an obsession to pick apart the emotions that viscerally addicted me to climbing. If climbing was addicting not only because of its dosage of adrenaline then there had to be another way to find a few of those other emotions.

So many times I turned to easy hiking trails as my injuries and recovery formula dictated prudence and realistic outdoor activities. Yet, it became mind numbing. Thinking positive and appreciating the reality that I was back in the outdoors only uplifted my spirits for so long. Sharing the trail, views, and lunch spots gnawed at the back of my head, I missed the vistas and hard won landscapes that mountaineering awarded. The solitude of the mountains was hard to find on those busy trails, and there was something else that became evident. Objectives, goals, aims, they were all lacking and my personal drive to find achievement was left unfulfilled. Adding miles would only further hack at my injuries so doing so was not a possibility. Hiking, again and again, fell short.

By subtle chance a picture in a magazine hooked my curiosity. It was of a single fly fisherman, wading thigh deep in a seemingly hushed and narrow river, fall leaves glided past as he stalked the channel of water winding into the damp forest. The scene evoked everything I was craving, it was solitude, an aim, thrill, and the outdoors spooled all together. And this captivating image was close to home, the Olympics.

Fly fishing was foreign to me, what reel to buy, what flys to use, how to cast, and which rivers to choose. All I knew was a wanted to be in that turquoise water amongst the stones and hidden trout. Over the past couple years I have rarely caught anything of honorable mention and I pose no greater threat to those trout. However, just a few hundred yards off the trail in the muted pines of the Olympics a new passion was revealed. Hardly a soul ventures through the thick undergrowth and fewer still wade into the chilling waters, thus a sanctuary is opened up by just a small distance. Like mountaineering, my senses perk up and are drawn to a goal. While tying a fly I study each calm pool, watch for insects as they swirl by in the currents, and glimpse at a trout easily gliding above the river bed. Every cast into the foaming water is focus and concentration, and it brings with it a richer connection to what surrounds me. The rivers, speckled with their gray, tan, and black stones, are as much the veins of the forest and mountains as they are for me now.