Many of Dave's friends and admirers came to him through fly fishing. And it is tempting to think his life's work was centered around the creation of fly rods and spending as many days as he could in his to-this-day-remain-a-secret streams, creeks, and rivers. But in re-reading Dave's fly fishing journals I was struck with how much of his explorations were about the soul of fly fishing. The sense of place where he fished, whether it was waters in Yellowstone or in the middle of a Montana rancher's pasture. Fishing, I think for Dave, was a means. The end was learning more about himself through the place he was standing, casting.
Several days after Dave died, I got a chance to fish. It's been a long summer for me, with no opportunities to get out and stand in moving water. As I drove to eastern Washington, I was so very aware of the little things that Dave would notice: the Osprey hovering over the Yakima River, the rotting cedar fence post, leaning heavy with rusted barbed wire, 
the straw, flattened in the field from deers, bedding down. Mark Twain once said what makes a really good writer is being a "noticer." Noticing things, details, about life, that make life, essentially, full and rich. Dave was a noticer. And because he saw things I normally ignored on my way to a stream or river, his descriptions made me open my eyes, even my heart, to the landscapes he loved.
the straw, flattened in the field from deers, bedding down. Mark Twain once said what makes a really good writer is being a "noticer." Noticing things, details, about life, that make life, essentially, full and rich. Dave was a noticer. And because he saw things I normally ignored on my way to a stream or river, his descriptions made me open my eyes, even my heart, to the landscapes he loved.So it was as I drove from the red trailer 
to my creek. The Red-tailed hawk's piercing cry followed me down the canyon toward the stream. The breeze as I walked from parked car provided a whiff of willow and poplar. The dogs scampered ahead, trying to reach the cool river before I made my first cast.
to my creek. The Red-tailed hawk's piercing cry followed me down the canyon toward the stream. The breeze as I walked from parked car provided a whiff of willow and poplar. The dogs scampered ahead, trying to reach the cool river before I made my first cast. Then I had the classic Dave Lewis moment. I've been fishing this spot for years. Never seen another fisherman. Ever. But as I got to my turn off, there was a guy, vest, t-shirt, sandals, shorts, and fly rod. I made a joke about never seeing anyone, he kept walking, and I turned off, walked to my spot, set my gear down, and here he comes, muttering under his breath that he missed "the turn." Not only that, he steps in the water and lets his line out! I almost erupted. But, I sat down, stared at him, watching him catch a couple of dinks. Satisfied, he left.
The dogs settled down to their usual insect collecting, 
and I waded a little further down stream 
from where this guy had caught his dinks. I cast, got a nibble, cast again, and a nice red-band rainbow took my fly, leaping in the air, then diving into the pool. Not a large fish 
by most standards, but gorgeous coloring, and a magnificent display of fight. I almost cried. I looked up toward the mountains that surround this stream, soaking in the last light of the early evening. Fish released, I tried again and caught another. I spent a few hours happily catching, releasing, watching the sun begin to set on the mountains, giggling at the dogs, relishing a little bit of time on the river.
and I waded a little further down stream 
from where this guy had caught his dinks. I cast, got a nibble, cast again, and a nice red-band rainbow took my fly, leaping in the air, then diving into the pool. Not a large fish 
by most standards, but gorgeous coloring, and a magnificent display of fight. I almost cried. I looked up toward the mountains that surround this stream, soaking in the last light of the early evening. Fish released, I tried again and caught another. I spent a few hours happily catching, releasing, watching the sun begin to set on the mountains, giggling at the dogs, relishing a little bit of time on the river.Where my uncle and Dave differ is in how they lived their lives. My uncle's greatest loss was when the extended family sold the cattle ranch. It was his passion, his greatest accomplishment. He was in his mid-40s when it happened and he never found his footing. He wandered the West, attending cattle and horse auctions, driving through Montana, Wyoming, Idaho, eastern Washington and Oregon, stopping his truck to look at ranches, the windshield between him and the smell of hay and cattle. Dave Lewis figured out early on he didn't want to be like that, nose to the glass, wishing he was some place else. He figured out how live within the soul of fly fishing. If for nothing else, you have got to admire a man who figured out how to do that. And because of that, he will be missed.
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