Her Home Water

I push aside backpacks, strollers and a wagon to clear the path for the 1970’s Schwinn single speed cruiser. Attached to the faded maroon steed is a bright yellow and blue trailer. Water bottles, Dora the Explorer books and countless snacks clutter the cabin.  Look closely you will see a single fly rod strung up with a giant black wooly bugger sticking out the back end of the trailer. 

This is the start of a mission I hope to continue with her all summer until the fall air chills the ponds to near freezing.

Cruising down the path along the Clear Creek a couple blocks north of our house in suburban Denver the little yellow and blue trailer is a flurry of questions and statements.

“Did you see that bunny?”

“Where’s the bridge?”

“I got a granola bar.”

“Look at the brown horse.”

All replied to with a simple yes as I struggle to pull 35 pounds down the path with a 45 year-old single-speed cruiser in order to get to our destination before dinner.

This is what it takes to get to our home water.

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True, it’s not the Arkansas River, the Colorado, the Roaring Fork or any other famous western cold-water fishery. What this pond is and what it will become is our very own place where we can catch a short glimpse of a beaver and catch bass on the fly while watching the sun set behind North Table Mesa.

The coaster brake halts us to a stop. The pond is reflective in its stillness. I manage to get in five or six good casts to where I think the fish will be before seeing a rock splash directly in front of my feet.

We are the only people with a fly rod. We are the only people listening intently with our hands to our ears as the frogs croak and the red winged blackbirds sing their evening song.

It’s her turn now.

She swings my old five-weight rod wildly a few times before reeling in all the line. We’ve moved onto watching the birds and listening to the frogs again.