Flower Crowns and Fly Fishing
A father and his daughter climb up a dusty trail. Rocks strewn across the singletrack, smooth from booted traffic headed into the alpine. Hundreds of feet below, a welter of tourists and locals weave along downtown Aspen bedecked in yoga pants or golf shirts, waiting in line at Paradise, listening to popup street musicians on the mall, or sipping cocktails at bars, scrolling on their phones.
These two fled the midsummer scene searching for a stream and isolation. Hardly an angler, the dad heard his daughter talking about fishing on a playdate. She spoke with zest and zeal about a thing she’d only engaged with peripherally. He heard an inquisitive energy in the way she spoke about fly fishing. So, he loaded her up the next day and whisked her into nature. They schlepped fly rods, a tiny box of mismatched flies, water, and a homemade lunch. They talked on the trail—about friends, rising into fifth grade, soccer camp, and ideas. Sometimes they were silent—but together.
Eventually, the trail’s climb flattened into a high-alpine valley. They meandered through a meadow. The river raged next to them as they climbed up the steep trail as it dropped from a high elevation towards its confluence with the Roaring Fork River. Now, in the flats of the meadow, the creek was calm. The writhing river winded through grass, cutting s-shaped turns with rhythm.
“Keep your eyes peeled for a spot that feels fishy,” he said.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“I’m not totally sure,” he said. “You’ll feel it. Trust that feeling.”
As they walked deeper into the valley looking for that magic spot and waiting for a feeling the daughter took a misstep on the trail and rolled her ankle. She fell onto her hip in the tall grass on the side. Her dad stopped. He hugged her while she sniffled. It hurt.
After a few minutes of consoling her, he asked, “How many tickles does it take to make an octopus laugh?”
“Dad, stop! This never works,” she snapped.
“Tentacles,” he said and waited.
She laughed. It always worked. He had a quiver of quips for occasions like these. Cliché, but true. He tied her shoe a bit tighter, and pulled out dry salami, cheese, and a crisp apple. He handed her a pocketknife—he always carried this knife on hikes—and asked her to carefully slice the salami. They ate a quick snack in the tall grass on the side of the trail.
“Let’s do it,” she said eventually.
Back on the trail she saw a spot that was fishy. She felt it. They saddled up to the creek to see dark water signifying a deep hole in the water. A beaver dam sat downstream from the hole—she liked the idea of that being a beaver’s home.
He pulled out the rods and with the clumsy fingers of a novice fisherman tied knots to flies. While he prepped, she explored. He laid back on the bank, listening to his daughter rummage through wilderness and hum a song quietly to herself. When she came back to the spot that felt fishy, she wore a handmade flower crown tied of wildflowers from the meadow. She held out another one tied for him. He handed her a flyrod. They took their shoes off and waded into the high-alpine creek. They fished wearing crowns made of wildflowers. Then, they made their way into town for a scoop of ice cream at Paradise.