Last spring I went to an event put on by a local fly fishing shop, Living Waters. It was called Ladyfish, and it was entirely dedicated to engaging women with the sport of fly fishing. A blend of information, hands-on practice, and storytelling, it was inspirational to say the least. I walked away with pages of notes, with one quote underlined and circled and starred. “Women can, and should, be fly fishing.”

For me, until I met my husband, fly fishing was something people did in high end films. It required an amazing stream, beautifully vintage gear, and perhaps Brad Pitt or someone similar – all captured by expert photography. But not long after I met my husband, I met his father. In the 24 years since that meeting, my view of fly fishing changed dramatically.

My father-in-law, Mike, was the definitive Minnesota outdoorsman (to me, anyway). He did it all. Hunting (deer and birds), camping (most meaningfully to me at Site 13, Mosomo Point, Cut Foot Sioux), and fishing (lake and stream), in equal measure. But it is fly fishing that best characterizes Mike in my mind.

I was fortunate to have a really lovely relationship with my father-in-law. With a husband who coaches and two kids who play sports and performed in the arts, I spend a lot of time in the stands, and more often than not, Mike was right there with me. Over the years, we had ample opportunity to engage in the sort of meandering conversation that forms the basis of comfortable friendship. One of my favorite conversations I’ve had with anyone, ever, took place on the way to the Soudan Mine and Ely, Minnesota, while Ryan and his brother stayed at the campsite to fish and my earbud-wearing kids zoned out to movies in the backseat. We covered a lot of ground over the years, including fly fishing…the streams, the trout, the gear, the rhythm, the connection. It sounded beautiful but unattainable for me. Like something that had to be a part of your DNA…and it wasn’t a part of mine.

It was only a couple of years later that Mike died, without warning, just a handful of years after his own parents. Lulled by the false expectation of many years to come, we were suddenly faced with so many questions, unanswerable in his absence. If you could only fish one stream, what would it be? How do you decide what fly to use and when to change? What is your dream catch? We knew just about all there was to pass on about camping, hunting, and fishing the lake. But fly fishing was more of an art, and a mystery. My husband had been with him many times, but was generally content to go along with the ride of Mike’s personal experience and knowledge. Suddenly, he was on his own. I certainly had nothing to contribute! It was a lonely feeling for us both.

When I saw an ad for the Ladyfish event in Round Rock less than a year later, I was intrigued enough to check the calendar. Even in the midst of baseball, basketball, and track seasons, that Saturday was wide open for me. Just to be sure, I ran it by my husband. His look of shock at my question – “Is it good by you if I go to this all-day fly fishing event for women?” – was quickly followed by an enthusiastic yes.

The event itself was pretty overwhelming, in a good way. Loads of great information, multigenerational speakers, hands on practice, and more. However, my greatest takeaway was that simple phrase – “Women can, and should, be fly fishing.”

As often is the case, life interferes between motivation and action, and mine was no different. But I knew – I knew – that I had to start fly fishing. I realized that the look that settled on my father-in-law’s face when he talked about fly fishing, and the timbre of his voice as he recounted some of his favorite adventures, were not unattainable to me at all. That connection to nature, to the water, to the process – it was accessible to me, too.

So, this fall, I finally settled on a rod to start with (for those who care, I decided to go with the Tenkara Sato, as I thought this streamlined method would help me get started without the added complication of line management). After long conversation and demonstration with the absolutely lovely people at Living Waters, I was ready to go.

With a goal of working on the cast and just getting familiar with the feel, Ryan and I grabbed my waders and took off for a local stream. It was late in the season and not the best location for a catch, but perfect for practicing the cast without catching a tree instead. And for a couple of hours, with the autumn sun spilling shadows that slowly crept across the stream, that’s exactly what I did. I’m generally an impatient learner; I want to master things quickly. But the magic I attributed to fly fishing as an outside observer proved real and true for me on the water. After the first five minutes of total discomfort, the outside world receded and I found myself in thoughtful solitude and peace. I didn’t catch a thing, and I could have stood there for hours longer exactly as I was. I was relaxed, and felt no pressure at all. Just a sense of belonging, and appreciation for God’s creation.

The early journey home of the sun in fall finally caught up with me, and I packed my things away and walked along the shore for a bit, watching my husband take a few more casts with a spinner until dusk won the day. We stopped short when we saw a really enormous fish in the water; we couldn’t believe its size. It would have been an amazing catch, and I was glad when it disappeared into the dark. Because I will be back, and I hope it will be waiting.