April was a month of transition—cold, grey, and lingering winter. Daytime temperatures crept into the 5–10°C range while nights still dipped near freezing. For anglers, it felt like a suffering game: cold water keeping trout tight to soft seams, but rising flows and increasing daylight slowly waking them, providing a quiet but rewarding window for those willing to fish deep, slow, and patiently as the season began to turn.

Between fieldwork, conferences, home renos, and a last-minute cancellation from a fishing buddy, the trips I had planned quickly became little more than breaks between life’s obligations. Still, I found myself slipping away to an old haunt, waiting for trout to rise to the first hint of a black quill hatch.

As I get older, the memories of a trip are becoming less about fish—and I think I’m alright with that.

This one was never really about fishing. It was about getting the gear together, piling into the car, and making the drive. Now, walking the trail, we stopped every few steps—puddles in the mud, buds just beginning to push from bare branches. I had to laugh at the futility of thinking I was actually going to fish.

Holding my 2-year-old son’s hand, listening to his running commentary on the world, I couldn’t help but think of Neil Young’s opening of “I Am a Child”.

“I am a child; I last a while. You can’t conceive of the pleasure in my smile.”

More and more, it seems fewer of our friends are having children—for their own reasons, all valid. And yes, I could have been fishing that day if my son wasn’t there. But maybe life isn’t about fishing. Maybe it’s about the journey toward there—even if there keeps shifting.

Children have a way of forcing us into the moment—something we, as adults, struggle with as the weight of life slowly dulls the edges of why we wake up, work hard, and carry on. Always with the hope that at some point it will all pay off and we’ll be given the chance to “go fishing.”

But maybe—just maybe—we already are.