Life on the Water in Wyoming
Fly Fishing, Photography, and Finding Flow in the American West
I love fly fishing because of the places it has taken me and the people I have met along the way.
But the fish are part of the story too. There is something almost impossible to explain about holding one of these brilliantly colored creatures in the current for a brief moment before watching it disappear back into the river. The idea that a few feathers, thread, and fur can be tied into a fly convincing enough to fool a wild trout still feels a little like magic.
It's the quiet mornings and long evenings.
The conversations between casts.
The steady journey of wading upstream or floating quietly downstream.
It's learning to read the current.
Finding your footing on slick rocks.
Keeping track of the dog.
Watching for bears.
Sharing a cold drink on a tailgate after the day is done.
It's hearing someone call, "Fish on!" from around the bend and watching the excitement as a beautiful brown trout or Yellowstone cutthroat slips into the net.
It's noticing how spring runoff reshapes a river every year, carving new channels, moving gravel bars, and reminding you that these places are always changing.
Photographing the beauty of this way of life has become as meaningful to me as fishing itself. Both invite the same state of flow. Both ask you to slow down, pay attention, and notice the details.
Maybe that's what keeps bringing me back.
Not just the fish.
But the relationship between the angler and the river. The trout and the current. The insects and the seasons. The guide who knows every bend. The dog sleeping in the bow of the boat. The friends made along the way.
It's the relationship between people and place.
Fly fishing slowed me down enough to notice light differently. To pay attention to water. To movement. To weather. To wildlife. To quiet. To relationships.
Maybe that's why I reach for my camera just as often as I reach for my fly rod.
