Connie Parker
I step into the cold water of the Gallatin. I search for the rock shadows where they live. I cast awkwardly as fly fishing is a long way from my dad’s boat, a spinner, a chub and hours on the water. I plant my feet solidly on the slippery rocks and cast again. This time my mind drifts to the lakes of Kansas, to endless hours of catching one fish after another and remembrance of the seven year old girl handing the pole (not even a rod) to her father and saying, “Here, you take a turn; I am tired!” The roar of my father’s laughter who had caught nothing still rings in my head.
Suddenly, my line goes straight. I go from Kansas back to Montana in an instant. The cut throat and I play for a while and then I marvel at his beauty and his magical ways of taking me home once again!
Read More
Social Profiles