Fish scales have a way of slipping into my morning coffee cup. The car always smells of salmon flesh, and frozen fillets tumble out whenever I open the freezer door.
But my boyfriend, Hadyn, feels about fishing as I feel about traveling: that it is an act of passion, of reverence, which must be practiced as often as possible in order to feel a legendary moment of aliveness. Both activities share a pull that only the dedicated will ever understand.
Expectations can be deceiving; in the end, you never know what you’ll end up with.
In the right locations, it’s easy to lose yourself in isolated reflection. After all, those visions on the horizon belong to no one else.
You spend so much time waiting, time itself can loose importance and become merely a part of the experience.
The most awe-striking experiences aren’t always easy to reach. Sometimes, you have to wade through a lot of crap to get there.
What is it that elates us, the journey or the destination? Throwing your line out into the unknown or finding a surprise when you reel it in?
Often, you grow so focused on details in the foreground, you miss the ethereal scene developing in all directions.
In the end, all those little annoyances – the biting flies, the dusty trail, the early wake-ups, the over-charged transportation – lose their significance. Nothing matters but the taste of the story in your mouth and the knowledge that you have earned it.