The fish I didn’t photograph

The first trout I ever caught on a fly rod wasn’t big enough for my ego.

It was my first fly-fishing trip on the Guadalupe, and I’d caught the first fish of the day - beating out the three seasoned fly fishing buddies who invited me out with guides for the day. A tiny trout. The guide didn’t seem to think it needed a picture, and I was happy to agree. There would be more fish. Surely I could hold out for a better one.

I got skunked for the remainder of the float.

I’m still inclined to blame that on turning down the picture. After the float, I was determined to wade fish by the rental house we were staying at until I caught a picture-worthy trout. Truth be told, I wish I had a photograph of the first. It was my first fish on a fly rod. That should have been plenty.

I fell in love with fly fishing, even though I certainly didn’t become great at it. For a while, I was often on the water. I fished with five or six different guides regularly and kept in touch about river conditions and which patterns were working. There were trips with friends and clients, time with my in-laws even when my wife wasn’t along, and bourbon and cigars ahead of an early fishing morning. I also became fairly accomplished at buying gear I probably didn’t need.

Some days I wanted the company. Other days I wanted to get away from people for a while. Both were good reasons to go. After several fishless trips, my brother-in-law, Gavin, caught his first fish—a catfish, which was a new one for me on the fly. I loved sharing that experience with him. Even if he never wanted to do it again, we’d had that time together, away from our phones, with something to remember afterward.

Then I started going less. Work, kids and everything else filled the space. It’s been years since some of those conversations with the guides. I bought a GRTU lease access pass and let an entire season go by without using it. All that gear, access to the river, and I still wasn’t fishing.

I was busy trying to build something of my own, too. Over the years, I’ve chased ideas based on what people needed, what they’d pay for and where I thought there was an opportunity. Some got swallowed up by my regular work. Others faded because I didn’t love doing them enough to keep going when they got difficult or my efforts didn’t feel valued.

Meanwhile, fishing was something I already knew I loved, and I kept postponing it.

I’ve become a experienced and trusted health insurance consultant. I get to help people, and I expect to keep doing it for the foreseeable future. It’s also stressful, and there is always more work. My kids are getting older, and I’m not getting younger. I don’t want another unused pass to be the record of what I intended to do with a year.

So I’m letting go of some other ventures, including ideas that might make money, to give Found Water a real chance. I’d like it to build something I'd be proud to leave my kids. hopefully along the way, it can be a revenue generating business that would give me more freedom to choose the work I take on. But I’m already enjoying the effort, before there’s a customer or an audience to justify it. That’s a change worth paying attention to.

I’ve signed up for the lease again this year, and the pass should be here before long. I want to reconnect with the people I used to fish with and make new memories with my family. At home, I’m getting the tying materials out of their ziplock bags and building a place where I can actually use them. Otherwise, I can see February arriving with the bin untouched and another shopping trip for flies I already own.

The first three flies were ugly. The hooks were too big, and I’m still learning thread tension. I wouldn’t buy them, but I enjoyed tying them. I want to make more, fish them and find out what works.

That’s what I’ll share here: getting back out, reconnecting with people, learning, and trying to build something I care enough about to keep doing. My Christian faith is part of how I hope to go about it, with grace for people and a willingness to be useful. There’s room for me to practice both.

You can be terrible at something and still love doing it. I’m giving myself permission to enjoy the beginning this time. If there’s another little trout, I’d like to have the picture.