Free Time Is a River by Mary Alice Monroe Page A

catalog.”
    “Yep, and looks like they fit.” She walked over to the rod and held it in her hand, testing its weight. “I think this will be a good rod for the river out front. It’s a nice all-’round rod if you don’t go catching any monster fish. But you know what they say. The least experienced fisherman always catches the biggest fish. Ready? Let’s go out and see how it feels.”
    Mia’s heart gave a fish leap of joy. She had come to the mountains not to clean but to feel again a tug of life at the end of a line. She hadn’t had time yet to get outfitted and out fishing. She followed Belle, giggling at feeling fat in all the layers after being thin for so long and hearing the fabric swish loudly as she walked to the bank of the river. It was early evening and the water in the pool looked like green glass, broken only by occasional rise rings. Mia smiled with anticipation.
    Belle finished tying a dry fly on her line, then handed her the eight-foot fly rod. “OK, let’s see you cast a few.”
    Standing on the bank dressed to the nines, Mia felt nervous with Belle watching beside her. It had been a week since she’d held a rod in her hand, and all of Belle’s instructions were a jumble in her head. She lifted the rod, getting a feel for it. Her hand clenched the rod tight. The dry fly dangled in the air as she tried to remember how to cast it out there on the water. Something about a four-count rhythm.
    Taking a breath, Mia thrust the rod back to her shoulder. She heard the line snap loudly behind her. Then, with a jerk, she extended her rod far forward like a sword toward the water. The line soared wildly in the air, then came falling to the ground to land at her feet like a pile of spaghetti.
    She could hear Belle’s voice behind her. “Don’t bend your wrist! Try again!”
    Gritting her teeth, Mia reeled the loose line in and tried again. Again, the line fell in a sloppy mess on the water.
    Belle chuckled softly. “It’s that wrist again.”
    Over and over her little fly flopped forward in a heap of line, or got caught in her pants, or twisted around her rod like a ribbon around a maypole, making knots that would try the patience of a saint. Her spirits were sinking with the sun.
    Belle came over to gently take the rod from her hand. “You’re trying too hard,” she told her. “Look at you. Your shoulders are tense and your nails are digging into your palm. You’re clutching that rod in a death grip. You’re only going to get tired out that way. Stretch your hand out and shake it. That’s right. Loosen it up.”
    She put the rod back into Mia’s hand, guiding her thumb on top of the rod and the reel below her wrist.
    “Now listen to me because this is the most important lesson I’m ever going to give you about fly-fishing.” She paused. “Mia, fly-fishing should be fun.”
    Belle met Mia’s gaze with a sweet smile. “Coming to the river is coming to nature at her best. It’s your time away from the pressures of work and life. When you fly-fish you get in touch with that wild, instinctive part of you, my friend. Let her loose!”
    Mia whooped, then laughed self-consciously.
    “That’s the spirit! Now let’s try it again. First, get yourself comfortable. Take your time, this isn’t a race. There’s no prize for most fish caught, OK? Now just think where you want that fly to go. Then imagine that big clock again and go from nine o’clock to one.”
    Mia gathered her composure for a final cast before quitting for the day. You can do this, she told herself. In her mind’s eye she saw Belle gracefully cast her rod back and forth, the long line in a tight S loop. Focused now, Mia held her rod parallel to the ground, imagined a big clock face, and brought the rod back in a quick motion.
    The line sailed back. Then she tried to thrust forward but she felt a tug from behind. Looking over her shoulder, she followed her line to see it tangled up in the tree branch that hung above the water.