This country holds beauty not readily apparent. Dry and sparse it is a minimalist's landscape. Yet in time it's beauty is revealed. In the evening hours as the sun recedes, the harsh contrast begins to soften. It's colors layered in shades rather than diversity. Softening light bathes the hillsides in gold and even the fastest of movements seem to slow and hang in the still air.

One of the biggest attractants to fishing is solitude. Particularly with fly fishing, where concentration, precision, and stealth can be of utmost importance. It's natural then that we don't like to share our spots with others. At least for me though, fishing is best when shared with friends. If you catch that monster you need someone as witness and to high-five. Miss a hook set, a friend can serve as a shoulder to cry on or a tough-love reminder to keep your shit focused. There are places I fish that were shared with me and I don't mind showing others those same special places. That is as long as they promise not to tell anyone.

I heard it before I saw it. That distinct laugh, quick and repetitive. The context was all wrong though. I continued on my walk home from the bus stop along the busy road. Again I heard the trilled laugh. This time I stopped and took a long look around. The sound familiar, but out of place. I was about to resume my walk when I finally spotted it, a belted kingfisher. Perched on a rail above the canal head gate it turned its head from side to side, almost as if it was waiting for someone, or something. Was it waiting for the water to return? The canal was bone dry save for a few small puddles from the recent snowmelt tucked in the shaded corners. It would be nearly a month before the reservoir released and waters would spill over the gate. It called out again. Wishful thinking perhaps.

Cold plunges are all the rage these days in the health and wellness community. So we figured why not start the New Year off on the right foot? If subjecting yourself to uncomfortably cold water somehow rejuvenates the body or at a minimum cleanses the aftermath of the previous nights festivities, why not give it a shot. Since we are going to be in the river anyway, why not bring our rods? I mean we should probably  rejuvenate our bodies AND our minds? Man, who knew fly fishing was so good for you. 

Blindly we stood at the top of the mountain. The fog so thick that our view was literally devoid of color, shades, or shapes. We had entered the white room and our only guidepost was each other.

Nervous faces hid behind reflective goggle lenses and gaiters. We exchanged a few shoulder shrugs and slowly lurched forward setting the group in motion. Turn by turn my eyes moved from ski tips to my nearest friend making sure I or nor anyone else made an unintended front flip or nose dive into a tree well.

Suddenly, we crossed the foggy threshold and tree shapes began to emerge. Details of the landscape returned and the snow once again had texture and contour. Finally we were able to loosen the reins and open the throttle. The deep snow no longer a hazard, instead a welcoming landing pad.

The blanket of clean white snow seems to heighten the senses. The insulating effects of snow make the world go silent. So quiet that all I can hear is my breathing and the compression of flakes as I shift my weight from one foot to the other. Devoid of color, the accumulation creates detail across the ordinary ground. I am suddenly aware of each and every wooden rail bed as they lead to the distant station. The air cold and crisp making me aware of every hair on my exposed skin. Time seemingly stopped with only the present moment in motion.

In sharp contrast to the arid west where we now live, much of Alaska is lush and thick with vegetation. Like daydreaming in the back of my high school history class, my mind wanders amongst the beauty of our surroundings and distant landscape. And like hearing my name suddenly called in that high school history class, I snap back to the present with the rustling of nearby bushes, remembering that we are in bear country. Scrambling to recollect the subject in hopes of providing the right answer I blurt out "Hey Bear!".

The snowy silence enveloped us as we rocked slowly in the chair of an old fixed-grip. Our cloths damp from the day long snowfall. We sit quietly taking in the scene of the blank white hillsides. 

The silence is broken as the first skier crests into view, poles planting to mark his next turn through knee deep snow. Hoots and hollers erupt from the chairs ahead as others cheer him on, vicariously living through every turn. The energy rises as more skiers take the plunge carving turns to the right and left of the original track. It suddenly becomes apparent just how slow the old chair is turning. Excitement turns to a small panic as each skier leaves their mark on the blank white canvas. Will there be any fresh turns left by the time we get there???

Finally we see the top, the liftie's stoic face hiding behind sun glasses what I can only imagine is brewing jealousy or heartbreak. We hop off the chair, make a quick plan and head off before more skiers arrive. The snow is heavy requiring my brain and body to make on-the-fly calculations and adjustments that seem to be two second too late. Entering the main run I hand the wheel over to gravity. Rhythmically I rise with each turn before fall ing back into the arch of fresh snow. The sensations sending an innumerable rush of synapses to my brain until involuntarily like a southern baptist on Sunday I let out a "yeeeeeeoowwww!"

I stop at the cat track to catch my breath and find my friends. We look at each other with grins of disbelief. Did that just happen? Without speaking a word the group consensus is that it was in fact that good. Pushing off we race back to the chair hoping to recreate the experience as many times as we can.