By Brian Dufrense
Shakespeare warned us all, “Beware the Ides of March.” I woke Sunday, March 15th of 2020 in a cabin with five friends on the tail end of a three day, two night fishing extravaganza on the East Fork of the Bitterroot River. Life could not have gotten much better. It could, however, get worse.
It did.
A lot worse.
The stay at home order came while we were off the grid. We returned to closing schools, closing businesses, and a full lock down. The world turned upside down.
Two weeks into the pandemic, the emotional strain of missing his friends, of distance learning, of fear of the unknown began to wear on my 13 year old son, Finn. In the face of such adversity, there seemed only one solution.
Fish.
I threw down the gauntlet, challenging Finn to fish with me every day of the month. Spring was springing. The sun was shining. Birds were chirping. Vibrant green began to replace lifeless beige. The human world closed its doors just as Mother Nature began opening hers. We accepted her invitation.
The memories of those thirty days flicker through my head like a montage of hope.
April 1st. Finn and I drive eerily abandoned streets through a lifeless town to a local fishing pond. Feet follow a trail to a world of cattails. Life bustles. Red-winged blackbirds chat maniacally. Ducks feed and fuss atop the wander and dive under. Finn, striding eagerly to the water’s edge, finds again a world of wonder. His cast lands with a plop and ripple; Hope dangles at the end of his line.
April 10th. Lila, my 10 year old daughter (and official photographer) joins us at the pond. She begins the shoot with a flurry of action shots of Scruffy, our furry, brown mini-aussie doodle. He bounds along the trail, ears alert, head darting, nose sniffing the ground and air. He wears a grin, and Lila giggles at his exuberance. She follows those shots with selfies, and finishes with a photo of Finn, struggling to grasp a thick rainbow trout.
April 21st. My wife Jessie, Finn, Lila, Scruffy and I head to Lee Metcalf Wildlife Refuge to meet both sets of our parents for the first time in ages. The outdoors allow us this preposterous luxury. We walk by blue herons and under baby owls to the Bitterroot River.
April 26th. I make the blasphemous suggestion to Finn that we not fish. I reason the integrity of the commitment would be met, even if we miss a day. Finn eyes me like I am a dog turd on the carpet floor. I turn to get the fishing poles.
April 30th, Finn flips a cast into the East Fork of the Bitterroot. His indicator dips below the surface. He sets the hook. His pole dives and darts from head shakes. Focused, silent, he fights and lands a brown trout. Proud eyes lock with mine.
There is magic in the public lands. I am certain of it.