I stood thigh deep in a long, straight section of Washington’s Yakima River, fighting a medium sized rainbow trout that had risen to a Blue Wing Olive dry fly. It was early afternoon, and the river, which drains from the eastern slope of the Cascade Range and carves its way through arid basalt in the state’s scarred interior, had thoroughly worn me out. The Yak is a big western river, and wet wading its cold water in the Canyon section can leave a fly fisherman with cold legs and a sweaty back.

Exposed, straight runs, like the one I worked my way through that afternoon, can be particularly difficult to wade through. High desert-like heat and flows that march ceaselessly south to the Columbia pose an elemental risk to the unwary recreator. Each step upstream is a challenge and requires focus in order to find proper footing. Softer water represents a relief for trout and angler, a lesson learned long ago by the fish.

In an instant, a flash of silver and my line went slack. The rainbow, with blue-ribbon deftness, spit its tiny feathered annoyance and returned to its lie. Losing a fish, of which I’ve lost many, happens fast. It leaves you standing, arms outstretched, heart pumping, staring at the spot where you saw the flash of silver. For me, the silent moment that follows the flurry comes with the oddest combination of frustration, amusement and elation. Almost every time, I involuntarily shout, then sigh, then laugh. It’s a rash of emotion usually only heard by the rushing river and (seemingly) chortling birds on the bank.

“Looked like it might’ve been a good one!” I turned around and saw a drift boat hurtling down the main current, piloted comfortably by a couple of old timers with wide grins. Reclined in their seats, sipping on cold beers, headed to the best holes on the river, I caught an air of understanding from the fishermen. They had once sweat their way upriver, zigzagged through fast currents, been unable to reach prime fishing spots and had fish unceremoniously pop off their lines after hours of effort. These days, they probably bring more fish to hand and end the day feeling less exhausted. But I can’t shake the feeling that graduation can’t come before schooling. In the old timers’ smiles, I saw a recognition of dues being paid. Sweat spent, fish lost and a young person’s game. For now, I’m in my 20s and thigh deep in the Yakima. Maybe someday I’ll be 70 and in a drift boat. But I’m not in a rush.