"The taste of thimbleberries, sweet and tart and full of seeds. The smell of butterscotch and dust, and juniper. The wind down the mountain passes and through the many pines and firs a rush as loud as oceans, with the calls of chickaree and flicker, Stellar’s jay, kingfisher, inside. The heat of hot rocks under a lake-cold skin, or the fibrous juniper bark against the fingers. Blue sky, blue lakes fallen from it, sharp granite, the evergreen, the goldenrod, the rowan red."
"…and here’s the thing about fly fishing: more often than not, you’re gonna get your ass kicked. Usually it’s a result of being unprepared, impatient, inattentive, or not-quite-as-good-as-you-think at fooling trout. But sometimes you show up mentally prepared, vest bristling with all the right flies, informed and familiar with the water, and in the company of fishermen ranging from solid to (occasionally) spectacular. And still your ass receives a thorough kicking. If the scenery doesn’t do it, the river will: humility is inevitable.”