It was the first Saturday in November 2017. Rain had been in the forecast and many of the streams around Ohiopyle were blown. I met good friends and fly fishing guides Dale and Cyndi Kotowski at the Meadow Run Trail parking lot. We chose to go out more as a goodbye than anything. Later that month, I was moving away from Pittsburgh, my residence of the past 16 years, for a new beginning in Massachusetts. It was a special occasion to spend some quality time with the trip leading couple that I’d gotten to know over the past 10 years coordinating outdoor outings at Venture Outdoors.
Temps were in the mid-40s and the sky was misting as we put on our waders and boots. I moved to the center of the lot and took some practice casts. The wind rustled the fishing license pinned to my fleece cap while I concentrated on the precise instructions Dale gave for arm movement and posture: part robot and part feeling for the moment. The fly doesn’t lie. If your cast is weak, you know it. After a few consistent lands, we took off into the woods in search of a good fishing hole.
Something happens between the parking lot and the invisible archway of a trailhead. A transformation occurs. The inner child emerges and each member of your party begins to feel free. Curiosity awakens, wonder takes hold, and there is a sense that you are tapping into something much greater than what you were previously experiencing.
Following the rhododendron lined path, it didn’t take long for us to come to a fishing spot. Guiding was in Dale and Cyndi’s blood and it was evident that they took as much joy from watching their students learn to fish as they did from doing it themselves. I stepped into the 45 degree water. The stream pushed the air from my waders and embraced my legs with a cold touch that made me thankful for the long underwear and fleece I was wearing.
“Aim just above the rock and let the fly drift down into the current.”
I did as Dale instructed, or at least I tried. As a newbie to fly fishing, my mind kept circling back to his dryland casting directions. Start with the rod down. Pinch the line with your index finger. Don’t bend your wrist! Bring the rod up quickly. Up, up, up. Pause! (Pausing allows the fly line to unfurl.) Now, forward stroke out and follow through down.
“There’s a fish in that hole,” Dale said with conviction.
What? How does he know that? I took a deep breath. The instructions left my mind. I casted just above the rock. The purple passion fly drifted toward the bank and then…
“You got it!”
I do? I felt the tug on the line. I started reeling in.
“Let out the line. It’s a big one!”
Okay, okay, okay! I let out the line and then started bringing it back in on Dale’s command. The fish came close to where we were standing and flashed its greenish body covered in black spots with a clear streak of pink along its side. Cyndi tried to nab it with a fishing net. It dove down and headed upstream. I let out more line and then started bringing it in again. We all got into better positions and when it broached the surface again, Cyndi got it. She quickly took out the fly and handed me the fish. Dale had the camera ready for a quick shot while giving directions on holding it properly. It started wiggling in my hands and I knelt to let it back in the water. It slipped in and disappeared.
“That was a 20-inch rainbow!” exclaimed Dale.
“Lora, that was amazing! That was the biggest fish we’ve had anyone catch on our trips,” shared Cyndi.
“What? That’s crazy. I’ve read all your trip evaluations and your participants are always catching fish.”
“Not that big!” said Cyndi.
“No, not that big,” said Dale with a grin.
“Do you make all your clients feel this special?” I asked, and we all laughed.
“I think that was the highlight of this trip. I don’t think we’ll catch anything like that again today,” said Cyndi. “It was meant to be.”
We walked toward another section of Meadow Run and I pointed out some amber jelly roll fungi (Exidia recisa) on a branch that had fallen. I began sharing what an impact attending the Western PA Mushroom Club’s Gary Lincoff Foray a month earlier had on the way I was spending time in nature. I had been given permission to go off trail, to explore, to follow my curiosity, and it was opening up a new way of seeing the world, of living in it.
The conversation was deep. Outdoors deep. The kind of conversation that happens when you’re gathered around a campfire, exhausted from the day’s hike or hunt or fishing expedition. You’re connected to a higher consciousness perhaps and ideas flow.
We arrived at the next section of stream. There was a family by the water with their dog. We fished the area for a while and Cyndi caught one. A burst of rain came through and we were happy to head back to the cars and then on to the Falls City Pub to meet with friends.
“Maybe this could be what I do next,” I said while reflecting on the day. “I could take people into the outdoors and have conversations with them that open them up to new ways of thinking about their situation.”
“You’d be good at that, Lora,” said Cyndi.
“I think you’re onto something,” said Dale.
A year later, I am living into the vision that I set for myself on that magical day at Ohiopyle State Park. I’ve nearly finished my coaching certificate program, started a business where I help people discover and live their best life, and continued to follow my curiosity.
It was meant to be.