I learned to cast before I learned to fish. Just a four-year-old in the yard with a hot pink pole and a piece of black tape for a hook. I’ve always been one to find the process as exciting as the end result because it’s the little nuances that happen in between the big moments that shape the story told in the end.
Nuances that you might forget about if you don’t write them down, like how the cold air pockets settle over a flat grassland in the evening or the way your eyelids want to stick together when you are up at 4 am loading the horse trailer for the day. It’s with those moments I’ve begun to craft my story. Cut to a summer scene finishing art school projects by lantern on a guest ranch in the Rocky Mountains followed by another spent trailing cows to fresh pasture in the plains of eastern Montana. I keep and often use, a plant id book on my bookshelf from my days at junior college studying rangeland management systems, and I’m currently collecting and recording women’s stories about gear that has transcended its original purpose to become something new.
As I said, my story has just begun.
I’m still practicing my casting at the river behind the house this time with a fly rod and an Elk Hair Caddis.

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