How many times can you push out a flight before it becomes ridiculous? I just set a new personal record at four pushes on my Delta flight home. What was supposed to be a short weekend fishing trip to Bozeman to visit Colin for his birthday ended up becoming an almost week long stay of rest, recovery, and concussed trivia. Owen and I flew in from San Francisco Thursday night. Lowell and Heather joined us Friday afternoon. Originally we were all supposed to leave Sunday

But by the time I left Montana early Friday morning I felt a real kinship to the trout we had been fishing.

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Saturday we booked a couple of guides to take us out on the Gallatin River; up into the canyon towards Big Sky. During our time with the guides I caught more fish in a single session than I ever have fishing before. And Colin caught his first Montana trout! Truly a successful day of fishing. Fly fishing scratches an itch for me because it’s more thoughtful, more intentional, than just casting and waiting for bobber to bob. You have to think like a fish. The water is cold, they’re probably eating opportunistically. No rises; nothing is hatching so nymphs are the line. The smooth water behind those boulders looks like a good home for these slimy lil fuckers. Subtle bite, strike indicator jiggles, hook set, fish on — keep the rod tip up, strip, strip, and landed! A picture with these strangely beautiful creatures, then help them recover in the river and send the fish on its way.

Usual after the release I stop thinking like the fish and try to put myself in the mind of a new one. But after our day of fishing we went to do some shooting.

We started with handguns. Then a shotgun and some clays. As Owen put it, I “put on a clinic” when it came to shooting the clays. As they swept across the open Montana sky I’d follow with the shotgun’s barrel and take them down. Like a fish in a feeding frenzy I thoughtlessly plucked these orange pigeons from the firmament, one after another, getting all I could. The success with the shotgun left me more than a little presumptuous. And eventually some long range rifling. One of Colin’s friends pulled out a 28 Nosler, a beautiful long range bolt action rifle. We set our target about 200 yards out and got to shooting. A few of the fellas shot before me. Still high from my success with the shotgun I took a knee and prepared to shoot the rifle.

I’ve not done any long range ballistics shooting in my life. Just photos. Most recently Tule Elk in Mendocino National Forest. Eye to the viewfinder, widen the lens, slowly tighten the focal length, focus the elk and shoot. How different could that be from shooting a rifle? My biggest error, having my eye right up on the scope of the rifle. Cartridge loaded I pulled the trigger, rifle rang and kicked, the arc of the scope hitting both the bridge of my nose and forehead simultaneously. Hook set.

I was rocked like fish a yanked out of water. Spinning, confused. This is new, I’m not supposed to be here or feel like this. I left the rifle go and feel back on the ground, flopping about as I held my head. Is that blood? Trying to stand I wobbled about. Colin tried to prop me up by I slipped back down. Deep breaths, why couldn’t I compose myself?

A fish is pretty quick to recover. After the current caries water back through it’s gills, it’ll swiftly swim away. Not I. I eventually found my composure and went on with my day. The bleeding had stopped. But I had a much slower return to water. That night we went out to trivia and I couldn’t distinguish my Greek gods from my Roman, let alone the day of the week.

Clearly in no condition to fly, I pushed out my flight the first time. To which Owen did the same. Lowell and Heather left Sunday afternoon. Becca had to travel that week for work. So the three fellas turned Colin’s house into a WeWork rotating around different private rooms for Zoom meetings. Admittedly the next few times I pushed out my flight I had probably pretty much reactivated and beat my concussion, but we were just having such a good time. The next trout I catch, I’ll be more sympathetic to its plight and its jarring exposure to the world above the water; I’ll be reminded of my own concussion and the memories I hopefully can retain from Montana.