It's the Journey

It's not the destination, it's the journey... A while back, a friend of mine said that, and it really stuck with me.

I'm a lifelong skier (40+ years).  I've skied all over the Midwest and West as a teenager with my family, then with my own family as an adult.  Back in my younger days, I learned to ski at Buck Hill, since it was close to home.  In the mid-70's, my sister and I received a Christmas gift of 5 ski lessons from our parents.  We we're skaters; my Sister a figure skater and I a hockey player -- having learned on second-hand double-runners when we were just 4 years old at the rink across from my Grandmothers' house in St. Peter, MN.

Ahhhhhhhh, the smell of wet wool mittens on a cast iron warming house stove in the morning...

You know, it was a big deal back then to ski, and not everyone got the chance.  In retrospect, lift tickets were only $10-15, but that was a lot of money in that day and age.  This was after Stein Eriksen and leather Henkel ski boots -- the dawn of when Wayne Wong and "Hotdog" skiing were the rage.  If you remember Jet Turns, Ballet Skiing, orange Olin Mark IV's and Lange Boots famous poster proclaiming "Keep Those Tips Up", then you're getting warmer.

Well, our first ski lesson was in mid-January, and as I recall, the temperature was approaching zero with a wind chill nearing -50°F below zero.  No matter.  We bundled up and were ready and raring to go.  The ski instructor, surprisingly, was not deterred by the weather, perhaps being infected with our googley, wild-eyed enthusiasm. 

After that first lesson, I knew I wanted to be a skier.

How I Caught (and Released) the Colorado State Record Rainbow Trout

I drove up to do some lake fly-fishing in northern Colorado a couple of years ago during spring break in mid-March, 2012. It was just after first ice-out, with plenty of snow on the ground, and only a small section of the lake open on the north side of the lake.

I stepped out of my rental car, read the mountain lion warning sign, then hiked around the lake from the public launch area to a small beach that was relatively shallow, adjacent to a rip-rapped dam that created this reservoir-lake.

I was alone at the time, but after a few minutes, another guy shows up and takes a spot just down the shore.  I was wading, casting black tunghead wooly bugger and catching 12" rainbows, one after another.   Then, for some reason I look down, and there was a huge trout near my feet, nosed into the rocks.

After closer examination, I could see the huge fishes gills working, so I knew it was alive. I guess the icy water was still cold enough to slow the fishes metabolism down or maybe it was old age. In my best estimate, the fish looked to be four feet in length, or possibly longer.

Having caught great lakes steelhead in the 28"+ range, this fish was as long as my leg; probably 20+ pounds and most likely a state record rainbow trout.

After fishing for an hour or so and observing this gigantic fish, I decided to reach down to see if the fish would respond. I stuck my hand down into the water and grasped the fish by the tail, and in one fell swoop, put my other hand under it's belly and lifted it out of the water. At the same moment, I yelled to the fisherman down the beach to take a look.

His expression was one that can only be described as dumb-founded.

The fish was so large that when lifted, it could only shimmy side-to-side in a slow-motion wag. Fourty-eight inches was a base minimum. After a triumphant whoop, it occurred to me I had to make a decision. Turn and walk back to shore with my trophy, or release this magnificent fish.

With little regret, I gently placed the fish back in the water, head first, still grasping the tail. After a couple swishes back an forth to revive him, he gave a mighty thrust of the tail and with a splash returned to the icy water.

You would have had to use a shovel to wipe the smile off, as the perma-grin stayed resident on my face for quite some time.