Sunday afternoon I somehow stole a few hours away from the itinerary and parked myself in front of our fireplace. Piled in a perfect circumference around me was an admiral collection of fly tying materials and books. This simple act is a story presented in the dress of feather & fur but it’s subplot is the rekindling of what was once as dominate passion. A quest to be self sufficient and prepared for time out of doors.
Life’s stages slipped tasty cold cuts into this sandwich called parenthood, but there with the oak hissing, the dubbing being spun to the thread and the whip finishing was a good and lost but not forgotten friend. You know, sometimes good ole’ balogna and mayo just hits the spot.
I have been searching for ways to describe this sensation, and even tried a few out but left them abandon like egg shells in a sink. Then tonight I came across this quote in a book I am reading named “A Man’s Life… Dispatches From Dangerous Places” by Mark Jenkins:
“Some days in the mountains are so transcendent that you feel you are the luckiest human alive. Inexplicably, after everything you’re in the exact right place at the exact right time. The very air resonates with your good fortune. This is the kind of day I have. Just the snow, the mountain and me. Alone, free from the fearful burden of the faithful, I feel myself slip back into my natural, easygoing relationship with the world”.