It all started out with a fly, the last one I had of a nymph pattern that seemed to be the only thing working on that particular day. The fly was lobbed into a small seam that was protected by a set of fairly mean rapids, my sighter dipped and I set into a deep snag. The kind of snag that no matter what you do it's not coming out. So I proceeded to do what any angler facing the loss of his last productive fly would do, I went in. As I navigated towards the boulder that supposedly ate up my fly, I realized it was actually caught on something lodged against it that appeared to be a bright blue. I reached down into the water to the point where only my neck and head were above the surface in attempt to free the hook, all this yielded was a wet arm. Taking a different approach I slid my boot under the mysterious blue item and gave it a swift kick towards the surface. Up comes a whitewater kayak paddle, attached to it my last SOS nymph. I unhooked my nymph and with a laugh I threw the paddle on the shore and continued to fish. As I worked my way out of the water, I stepped over the paddle, which revealed to me some faint writing in sharpie marker that had been severely faded from it's time spent under the water. On it read a name I couldn't quite make out and some numbers, which after some intense studying I realized was a phone number. I can recall thinking to myself "If I lost my fly box or rod I'd probably appreciate someone returning it", so I scooped up the awkwardly weighted paddle and struggled upstream with it. When I reached cell phone coverage on my drive home I dialed my closest interpretation of the numbers written on the paddle and got a lady on the other end that was ecstatic I had found her missing paddle. We set a meeting place and the paddle was returned. While talking with the kind older woman I came to learn she recently took up kayaking to escape some troubles in life, so she was very happy to have the paddle back, which I also learned cost around $300 (fly fishing isn't the only bank breaker). On the following weekend I made a return trip to the same stream since the fishing was so good (this time with more SOS) and while working over a section just around a mile upstream from where I found the paddle, I eerily saw another flash of blue submerged at the bottom of a fairly deep tailout. Putting my boot trick back into play, I kick up a clean looking high end wading staff. I checked for a name and number and even searched the stream for another angler who may have lost it. With no one in the vicinity I thought it'd be a welcome new addition to my gear, since I was still on the mend from an accident and could use the extra bit of help wading the tough waters that I frequent anyways. So I strapped it to my vest and proceeded upstream. As the summer progressed it helped me tread through the bigger tailwaters I fish during warmer weather and especially into Autumn when I suffered a pretty significant ankle injury while deer hunting. It had become a staple in my outdoor gear and I came to regret everything I said about them being "for old guys and purist." This winter I needed it more than ever. I had a fishing trip planned that I refused to cancel due to a blizzard. About two feet of snow blanketed the valley the day before. It was nearly impossible to navigate, but I managed and that staff was a critical piece needed to poke through the snow for an extra point of contact. I slid my way down into a canyon I have been meaning to explore. Doing my best impression of a sled, I barreled to the bottom of the sleep hillside and landed on my feet at the edge of the stream. It was nearly impossible to navigate due to the high snow banks, but I found a good fish in a deep run that was willing to eat a big meal, which kind of made the trip. On my attempt to leave I quickly learned that sliding down a steep incline in deep powdery snow was far easier than climbing back up it. I was seemingly trapped. I'd climb almost to the top and back down I'd tumble. In a last ditch effort I dug the wading staff deep into the snow and lodged it against a hidden object, just as I was propelling myself to the top and onto flat ground I slipped, lost my footing, and back into the canyon I went. At Some point during the flopping around, I caught a glimpse of the river and saw the blue end of the wading staff materialize into the deep icy water. In a fit of rage I did my best whitetail deer impression and ran straight up the cliff at a slight parallel angle and finally hit the flat of the trail at the top with a great leap. I high stepped my way back to the car and set the GPS to home. Trudging through snow of that proportion all day takes everything you have. Id argue it to be some of the best cardio and leg work outs possible. I surprisingly had that post gym satisfaction one gets after a vigorous workout. It was at that moment that I realized what had just happened to me. The wading staff that was a crutch to me in tough times was no longer needed by me and it was neither found nor lost by some coincidence. As I pictured in my mind an aging angler slowly working his way up through that dark canyon, snagging his line on a mysterious blue item on the bottom of the stream, and reaching down to see what it is, a smile overtakes me. Great life lessons were learned on that long snowy road home. Everything you do comes back around, things enter and leave your life at precisely the right moments and wading staffs aren't for just old guys and purist.
