TRCP’s Western conservation communications manager reflects on the recent victory for public lands and the opportunities this freedom affords

My dad and I worked our way up the creek, which was the only way through the willows, the only path to follow. The stream emptied the peaks above and had flattened out in this hanging valley before it would again find its course to pour lower into the valley.

Where the water gained a foot of depth in front of a young ponderosa that had fallen in, we watched cutthroat trout interrupt the flow as they rose to a hatch of small, gray mayflies that tumbled in the current.

I’d caught a 10-incher in the last bend, so dad took his position on the left bank. Back far enough so his shadow wouldn’t reach over the water, he cast a #14 purple haze toward the top of the run in the bubble line that hugged the grass.

On a day like the one we’d been having, there should’ve been no surprise when the trout appeared below the fly. But there is always a reaction—the same as when a woodcock flushes from cover, or a deer walks into a clearing—of a trout materializing where only a moment ago there was none.

The trout followed the drift for a moment, then swallowed the fly with confidence. Dad’s 3wt bowed with the strong runs and we shared smiles watching the beautiful fish turn in the clear water. The black-spotted Westslope cutthroat came to his hand. The pastel cheek iridescent above the orange flash of the slash beneath the chin.

After a quick picture, the fish bolted back into the depth, disappearing in the nervous water as mayflies continued to float past.

“Plenty of water ahead,” my dad said, drying his hands on his pants.

“And plenty of day to fill,” I smiled back.

For the last dozen summers, my dad and I have spent weeks together in the backcountry of America’s public lands. Sometimes my mom and brother would accompany us, other times my wife, but the constant has been my dad and me folding into the routine of sleeping, eating, and fishing.

This most recent trip felt different. Not that anything had changed, but that it had stayed the same.

During the months before our father-son-first-week-of-July excursion, I’d worked with dozens of members of our TRCP team to help elevate the voices of tens of thousands of fellow hunters and anglers, leading outdoor brands, and partners in urging lawmakers to remove public land sales from budget reconciliation legislation.

We built action alerts and sent emails, organized letters and meetings, called our representatives and spread the news far and wide. We experienced small victories and setbacks and kept pushing knowing that every message to Congress was another step toward keeping our public lands in public hands. It was a powerful and moving moment to be committed our public lands that are the pride of our nation. I was honored to play a small part in this work.

By the time my trip rolled around, the team knew a decision was imminent, yet nothing had been announced. The day before I disappeared into mountains remote enough to bar me from any news, the amendment that would have mandated the sale of millions of acres of public lands was removed.

The celebration began across social media, news outlets, and emails from engaged organizations. The challenge that we had spent months working to overcome was overcome thanks to tens of thousands of conservation-minded people, as well as national, state, and local hunting and fishing businesses and organizations, and leadership from a bipartisan group of public land champions in Congress. Public lands had won!

The beaver dam had been blown out, but still the far side benefited from the slower water where the foundation clung to the bottom. A willow carcass made the run that much more enticing to fish and a danger to an errant cast.

And an errant cast was thrown by me so that my royal Wulff wrapped around a skinny finger of a branch and hung there for just long enough that disappointment grew in my stomach for ruining such a pool. Then, gracefully, the tug of the current on my line pulled the hook to set it free and the fly landed on the water.

Because the accidental placement became accidentally perfect for the drift, a cutthroat rose and swallowed the fly. I watched the orange sides turn and bully into the tangle. My tippet held and finally the trout came into the shallows where I beheld its spot-free side before the black studs appeared on the tail. A perfect fish in a perfect stream.

When the cutthroat returned to the run, Dad and I took a moment to drink some water before continuing. In that still moment, a time when our minds weren’t only occupied by the best path around a log jam or if that stretch was worth fishing, we each said out loud how grateful we were to live in a country that has public land where we can explore and be together without any worry or need to ask permission. That these millions of acres are ours to cherish.

And then we went back to fishing.

The victory of defeating public land sales is worth celebrating, but this most recent challenge is a reminder that our public lands are never guaranteed.

Learn more about how you can stay engaged on hunting and fishing access through our updated Public Land Access webpage below.

Read more public land reflections from the TRCP team HERE.