Finding me in Sedona, AZ

June 2017

After the San Juan trip, an idea began to hatch in my brain that I just couldn’t ignore, couldn’t get rid of. It would pop up on my runs and while driving the four carpools. Even while editing the photos I took for my photography clients. “I want to fish in Sedona.” 

Kristen had mentioned, just once, that Oak Creek in Sedona held some beautiful wild browns. Oak Creek Canyon had always been my special place. The smell of the creek and how it danced in the air with the pine, the tinny taste of the air from the iron in the red rocks. The magic of wondering if you’d come across ancient Anasazi ruins on your hike, ever since I was little Oak Creek Canyon lit me up while speaking peace to my soul. 

The thought of combining that magic with the happiness I felt when I was fishing, I really wanted that. And I wanted to experience that with Kristen. Not to mention, I had no idea how to fish a small stream like that. It took a ton of technical expertise that I knew I didn’t have. 

Almost subconsciously I had the entire trip planned before I mentioned it to Kristen. She readily agreed to take me fishing there for a weekend, we’d spend our first sunset near West Fork and then do sunrise the next day at Grasshopper Point, each time hiking upstream, as fly fishers do. Gotta surprise the fish. Grasshopper Point was new territory for Kristen and she was frustrated at the fact that the local fishing “bros” refused to share any information with her.  Luckily it was also exciting to see if we could figure it out ourselves. 

We left Phoenix at noon and went directly to Oak Creek Canyon. Driving up Highway 89A immediately transported me back to the magic of childhood. Living in the house on Roadrunner with the huge wild backyard, playing fairies in the red dirt, and feeling like outside was the only safe place to be. 89A in the Canyon is just two lanes with no shoulder, a narrow path snaking through one of the most beautiful and photographed places in the world. When I was in high school working in the Sedona restaurants, tourists would tell me it was prettier than the Grand Canyon (just two hours north) and how much did I love living amongst so much beauty? 

I never had the words to tell them, that you don’t know Sedona’s beauty until you’ve sat in her forest and felt her speak peace to your 7-year-old heart. You’ve never known solace until you’ve sat on the smooth rocks of Red Rock Crossing, toes in the water, ears filled with the sound of ancient wind with whispers that even though your family is imploding, the earth still loves you. You don’t know celebration until you’ve climbed to the top of Bell Rock, past all the tourists asking you if it’s actually possible, and stood on the literal top of the world, feeling both soulfully huge and physically tiny. That’s my Sedona. 

We parked at about the place that Kristen said we would emerge from and then hiked back down the highway to get to the starting point. With no shoulder on the road, we walked single file, our packs on our backs, fly rods in hand. It was so warm, that we definitely didn’t need waders but the rocks are still slippery so we still wore our fishing boots, a technique called wet wading. As we walked to our drop-in spot, the Canyon air welcomed me home. 

Kristen glanced back at me. “What are you grinning at?” 

“I’m home.” I said simply and her face went into that mixture of laughter and surprise that I seemed to get out of her a lot. She found me fascinating and that felt amazing. 

We got to the creek, rigged up, and climbed in. In this section, the creek is only maybe 10 feet across with blackberry bushes lining the sides.  This section of the creek climbed in elevation steadily so the water would fall in cascading pools.  Kristen pointed out what we were looking for, to cast upstream at least two pools above where we were standing. The fish would be pointed upstream, looking for food to come to them. The goal was to drop our fly so lightly on the surface of the water, just like a real bug. The tiny wild browns would be fooled and chomp on it and we needed to set quickly, meaning pull the fly directly up and out of the water so that the hook would set in the fish’s mouth. 

“Easy enough,” I thought. What I was forgetting was that the last trip I took, was at the San Juan, and John drilled into me to not set lightly but with intention and strength. And those fish were about four times as big as Oak Creek fish. 

After a few tries, I landed my little fly the right way and in the right spot and splash, a tiny wild brown smashed it. My muscles immediately reacted, I set “with intention” and before anyone knew what was happening that fish was SAILING through the air, popping right off my line, and landing in the creek behind me. Bye!

I stood there in shock, disbelief that I had 1. set an Oak Creek brown and 2. lost an Oak Creek brown. Kristen was laughing too hard to even breathe. 

My lesson on small stream fishing began.

“We know you’re strong Elena. You don’t have to prove it to the fish.” Glare.

“Ok, ok. Here’s the deal. Small stream fishing requires finesse. Focus. Adjust to the flow, this isn’t the San Juan and these aren’t stocked rainbows. They’re smarter, they’re much smaller, and they require you to have more brains than brawn. They will shake the hook out in half a second so you do have to set it well. But they’re tiny so too much and you’ll lose them.”

Got it. We worked upstream and I got a ton of chances. Set after set, would be too late. I was overthinking. Then I’d actually hook one and it would go flying again. I started to get mad. Maybe small stream fishing wasn’t for me. 

Kristen noticed and began to tell me about how her first few trips to a small stream left her crying in the forest. There are so many elements that can go wrong and every time you feel like you’ve mastered one component, you let something else slide. 

I took a break and just watched Kristen fish. Stealth was required, finesse. In order to access those, I needed to find let go of the intensity that I used to get through every single day of my life. I realized I put all my energy into “enduring to the end” and surviving rather than…. I don’t know but it felt like this was better and if I wanted to land one of these fish I had to figure out a way to access it. I felt a breeze on my cheek and aware of where I was I realized, I need to drop into the energy of the stream. 

The next pool was mine and I waded to the best spot to cast from. I chose the middle because then my back cast could go behind me and not get tangled in the bushes and oak trees. I planted my feet in the rushing water, closed my eyes, and inhaled. Sedona was there with me instantly. The comfort, the peace, the sounds of the creek that I had known almost my entire life. Even with closed eyes, the shadows of the dappled sunlight through the trees reminded me of naps at Red Rock Crossing while at Verde Valley School. 

I know this energy, I can feel this energy. The thoughts in my head, worries about the kids and Chad and even worthiness and the temple and God’s love, were open like internet tabs in my brain. As I focused on my Oak Creek, I could feel the tabs shut down. When I opened my eyes, nothing existed but me and the stream. 

I cast, it landed lightly on the water’s surface, I anticipated the tug, and lifted, gently but firmly. 

Fish. A beautiful tiny wild brown. His red spots shone bright with the blue blush by his eyes. Gosh, he was beautiful. Fish, even of the same species, have different coloring depending not only on their age but also on where they live. Oak Creek Canyon browns, have speckles of metallic gold in their scales that reflect the light like crystals. I had never known that about my creek. All this time, this beauty had been hiding just under the surface of the water. It felt like I had found a secret world, inside a world I thought I knew inside and out. 

I felt a crash behind me and Kristen was diving towards me with the net, swearing her way through the thorny blackberry bushes. I was giggling with unencumbered joy as we gently put him in the net and in the water so he could breathe. The barbless hook slipped out easily, we took a couple of pictures, and off he went. As my first small stream brown slipped away, I realized that I had felt for the first time what it meant to be embodied, centered, at once deliciously content and eager for more. 

“I need so much more of this.” I thought to myself. Two hours, and many, many fish later, we climbed out of the creek and back to the highway. Again Kristen walked ahead of me, but now my boots were sloshing and my muscles well used. After a car passed, narrowly missing us, Kristen glanced back at me. “What’s got you so giddy? I’ve never seen you smile so big.” 

“This is my happy place,” I said. “But you helped me discover so much more of it today. I think this is going to be one of the happiest memories I’ll ever have.” 

Little did I know what would happen the next day at Grasshopper Point. 

This is an except from Elena Joy’s upcoming memoir UnBecoming. To stay in touch, please subscribe: