The first time someone rifled through my truck console and glove box I was a little shocked to put it lightly. They stole all my spare change and just trashed everything else. It looked like a racoon had a bachelor party in the cab. My doors were unlocked and I was parked on the street so it was an obvious crime of opportunity and I hope they enjoyed the $1.26 they ended up stuffing in their grimy pocket. The second time this happened there was nothing to steal and my paperwork was just scattered on the seats, but I still felt violated and a little dirty, not in a good way.
Living in the big city comes with these minor annoying occurrences mostly due to availability of cars with unknown amounts of “stuff” in them. I have found leaving my doors unlocked with nothing to steal must be overwhelmingly annoying to a would be thief with high hopes. What would one do with oil change receipts and empty change trays anyway? Once, I did find my seat fully reclined when I opened the door to go to work. That was a little unnerving.
One thing I’ve always been diligent with is my fly fishing gear. Over the years, in true packrat fashion, my fat Cabela’s duffle bag has become filled to the brim with rods, reels, nets, waders, and thousands of flies, most of which have never been tied to tippet. This bag always gets stashed in a secure location in the house after a trip to the water. If my wife would allow, this bag would lay beside the bed like an old Labrador Retriever. Not very romantic though. Then there are times when I have had a lapse in judgement and left the totality of my fly fishing life in the back seat over night in vain hopes of fishing two days in a row.
The day after my birthday in late November 2022 I fished urban Clear Creek, alone, and ultimately caught no carp, but picked up a bunch of junk, making it a somewhat fruitful day with fresh air and time to put aside thinking about much at all, especially the aging process. I pulled into our then apartment parking garage and vowed to pull the bag of wet gear out in the morning and bring it upstairs. Being a lazy bastard got in the way that evening and the next morning I rushed down with my daughters in tow, like I always do, to take them to their respective learning establishments. When my dirty, dented up truck came into view, I noted my Fishpond landing net on the concrete in a pile of shattered tinted glass. As all my friends and family know, vomiting comes easily to me, and I nearly lost it right then and their. I approached slowly and opened the door expecting, and finding the unspeakable. The duffle had vanished, and with it, 18 years of memories from Montana to Mexico. Even writing about it now makes my stomach do a summersault.
My daughters stared at me fully believing they’d see their emotionless, stubborn father cry for the first time in their lives (while not watching Forest Gump). Even my wife said I looked like I was on the verge of tears. Ultimately, I didn’t give them (or the thief) the satisfaction.
Between the multitude of heavy emotions that can twist one’s brain into wind knots, the truth was this act selfishness was something I still can’t comprehend. A bike or a car, sure. That’s transportation to the next hit. But what would a thief want with a bag of poorly organized fishing equipment? Had they always wanted to take up the sport but just couldn’t fathom dropping that much hard (stolen) cash on all that gear? Or did they know a guy who specialized in selling heavily used fly gear on a niche black market in RiNo? I truly hope whoever now possesses all my equipment means to use it, comes to love the sport, and picks up trash on the river after a hard day of fishing. Or drowns. Whoever does string it all together will soon find out the White River Classic 5 wt. reel is a frustrating sticking pain in the ass, and it gives me great pleasure they will curse it as I have done all these years.
A week after the incident six amazing buddies arranged a night of fly tying and whiskey in a location I will never divulge as the walls of this place are awash with fishing gear, sports memorabilia, and items of sentimental value an insurance company can put no cost to. I left with new tippet, nippers, hemostats, a boat box full of gloriously gaudy streamers, and Trouts Flyfishing gift cards to help me begin the process of getting back in the game. These fishy friends continue to amaze me, and they all offered their alibis for the night of the incident, which I believe to be rock solid.
As a year has now gone by and yet the insurance company helped me out tremendously, it remains clear I had become quite attached to this gear and this hobby that brings so much joy and mental stability to my busy little life. Unexpected events like this leave one with despair and frustration pared with a realization of how blessed one is that fly fishing gear getting stolen is a far cry from the real life or death problems of millions of other folks on this little blue planet. But on the other hand, I’m still human, and I’m still pissed off. But like spring runoff, these feelings won’t last forever, and I’m already enjoying the shiny new rods and reels that have once again got me outside and back to a socially acceptable level of mental stability.
The Confluences 