Readers of our blog (bless you!) know that its title is ‘2 Volks and a Wagon’.

And then there was one.

Two days ago, Joanie flew home from Bozeman, Montana.

The problem?

Joanie was plagued by horrible tooth pain that would not respond to painkillers or antibiotics. We both decided she should return to Connecticut to see her dentist.

Joanie was suffering what Great Britain has long endured, a crown gone bad.

Beneath a new crown, coronated (um, installed) only months ago, a puss-filled abscess had formed. Unlike the royal variety, this abscess was not the by-product infantile bickering, juvenile envy, boredom, excessive wealth, or life without purpose. It was merely bacterial. But once festering, and unlike the royals’ dysfunction, the solution was clear: root-deep surgery.

I hope you’ll join me in pulling for Joanie.

Can there be an upside to a bad crown?

For royal families everywhere, I’m not optimistic.

For Joanie, yes. No doubt, her sparkling smile and delightful mien will be back soon.

As for me, as the last one ‘vanning’, there is one advantage.

Flyfishing.

The Yellowstone ecosystem is one of our nation’s treasures. Its topography, geology, and biodiversity are spectacular. Within a hundred-mile radius of its caldera are some of the best flyfishing rivers and streams in the world. The Gallatin, Madison, Yellowstone, Snake, and other rivers, plus their hundreds of tributaries flow clear, cold, and fast—optimal conditions for cutthroat, rainbow, and other species of trout.

I am ashamed to say that no sooner than I had kissed Joanie goodbye at the Bozeman airport, I was madly searching for access points to several of those streams.

For those who do not know, Joanie is also an (occasional) fly fisher person. And often, she does better than me. I think that fact reflects equal parts pheromones, patience, and will power, all of which fail me by comparison.

Nevertheless, on some never-to-be revealed creek, a tributary of the Gallatin, inside Yellowstone National Park, no small part of my self-worth was restored.

Arcing gracefully to a well-placed fly, a 15-inch rainbow hit my line. I set the hook. Repeatedly, this marvelous fish exploded out of the water, leaping a half-dozen times up to three feet in the air, before she tired, I could land her, and release her.

Another followed minutes later. And I brought in an equal-sized cutthroat on the Gallatin that afternoon.

For the uninitiated, it is difficult to convey the joy of flyfishing.

It is peaceful. It is solitude. It affords time for reflection. At this time of year, it is about being caressed by knee-deep, clear, cold, rushing water beneath and sunshine above, wearing nothing more than rubber shoes, shorts, a cap, and a tee-shirt.

It is about studying the stream, anticipating where the fish will be, and then making one cast to the perfect spot along the bank, adjacent to a sunken log, or in the riffles that feed a deep pool.

And anticipating the rise.

I always fish with barbless hooks. I catch and release. I quietly thank each fish for helping me find pleasure, perhaps even purpose, that day.

Yet I never lament those days when I wade streams, skid down embankments, or cut trails through underbrush only to come up empty handed.

The joy is not primarily in the catch, nor in the fight. It isn’t even in the cast, even if a perfectly dropped fly 20 yards away into a fishy spot beats a long fairway drive, a perfect approach shot, or a long par-put anytime.

The joy is simply being there. By myself. Thankful for the opportunity. Grateful for the abundance of nature. Having purpose, feeling exhilaration, and being part of something so inspiring. It is the realization that my health, my work, my spouse, my family, and my luck permit me this abundance, this penniless fortune.

I can’t help the royals any more than I can fix Joanie’s tooth. But finding joy, alone, alongside a mountain stream eases life’s pains, at least for a while.

That is why I fish.