There are moments that leave a luminous fingerprint on the soul. Not because of what we achieve, but because of how fully we show up. The hush of early morning mist over still water. The snap of a fly line unfurling into sunlight. The laughter of women, waist-deep in a river, boots braced in the current, hearts lifted by sky, fish, and friendship. That’s the kind of wonder I keep finding in fly fishing. Especially in the wild, women-owned sanctuaries of The Fish Ranch in Baja and The Lodge at 58 North in King Salmon, Alaska.
Fly fishing, for me, is less about catching and more about the rhythm. A moving meditation. Intentional, joyful. The first time I stepped into a river with a rod in hand was ten years ago on Oregon’s North Coast. I felt something shift. The river invited a kind of quiet listening. The scent of trees, the sound of water, the way light moves across the surface. And lately, sharing that space with other women, some new to it, some total pros, has added a richness I didn’t know I needed.
The Fish Ranch, Baja: Saltwater Solace and Sisterhood
Baja is bold: sun-scorched desert meets wildly blue ocean. We went for roosterfish, dorado, toro. And wow, did Baja deliver.
We landed at The Fish Ranch just south of La Ventana, travel-dusty and wide-eyed. Mary Grigsby – founder, fisherman, and full-time Baja badass – greeted us with rods in hand and a huge grin. The place is rustic in the best way. Cacti glowing in the golden light, open-air everything. Salt air in your lungs. Mary built this during the pandemic and now it’s home to retreats, mentorship, laughter, and some of the best fishing I’ve ever experienced.
I joined a Women’s Week with my friend Wendy and her three fabulous daughters, a Mother’s Day trip we’ll never forget. We rose before sunrise, casting into morning pink. We caught massive dorado. Painted them (yes, painted them). Laughed ourselves to sleep. Mary believes this place belongs to every woman brave enough to cast a line. And she’s right. Check out the next Women’s Week in Sept 2025.
Roosterfish look like something out of a dream – striped, silver, with that dramatic dorsal fin waving like a banner. They hit like lightning. You feel it in your shoulders, your knees. I fished with an 11-weight rod and 12-weight line, just to give myself a fighting chance in the wind. When they strike, it’s chaos and magic. You’re in it. Completely.
One morning, I landed a big rooster. Grinning ear to ear under my “Que Bonito” cap – that felt right. The photo says it all: pure, unfiltered joy. Another day, I fought a jack crevalle that had me into my backing three times. At one point I was so hot, so tired, and so deliriously happy I just started laughing. Sometimes it’s not about the fish. It’s about the effort. The splash of luck. And having friends nearby to pour cold water over your head.
We learned so much that week: how to cast a heavy rod on a bucking, jumping boat; how to read the signs of whales offshore (the “humpback blue glow” refers to the phenomenon where sunlight reflecting off a humpback whale’s white pectoral fins or belly, when swimming near the surface, can create a brilliant blue or almost neon-like effect in the water. This is particularly noticeable in clear water and sunny conditions.); how to grieve the loss of local coral reefs and still show up with hope.
At Rancho Cacachilas, we saw what real sustainability looks like: solar power, regenerative farming. Pizza by the fire with ingredients grown right there on the land. It’s a reminder that care and curiosity make things thrive.
Oh and Pólvora, my best meal of 2025. Each plate was handmade by the owner from Baja clay, still warm from the earth. The space? Part wild garden, part art gallery, all heart. Get the churros. Sit at the bar. Just trust me.
The Lodge at 58 North: Northern Light, Deep Stillness
Some places reset your inner compass. The Lodge at 58 North does just that. Located in the remote wilds of King Salmon, Alaska, it’s where silence hums with life. Bald eagles. Bears. Light that never fully disappears in summer. I’ve visited in October and in June, and both were unforgettable.
Kate and Justin Crump, the owners, have created something special here. A blend of Danish design and Alaskan soul. Clean lines, big windows, warm wood everywhere. Their floatplane sits right at the dock, ready to take you to some of the best fishing spots I’ve ever seen. The guides are not only wildly skilled, they’re deeply kind. The food? Oh, just a Michelin-starred chef making art out of local ingredients. No big deal.
One afternoon, Wendy, my fishing adventure pal, hooked a huge salmon. She held her own like a total pro. We all whooped and cheered when it came to net. High fives, big grins, a little dance.
Fishing here means layers: waders, raincoat, fingerless gloves. A beanie pulled over a brimmed hat to block the sun. Always a thermos of tea. In Katmai National Park, you might find yourself casting next to a bear. They fish like they’ve been doing it forever. Because they have. It’s intense. And somehow totally peaceful.
One hike took us to a quiet bend in the river. Shallow water, loaded with huge rainbow trout. Basically a fish party in every pool. We caught so many, we stopped counting. And yeah, it took a splash of luck and skill to land a fly under the overhanging branches without scaring them off. But mostly it was our excitement doing the heavy lifting. Each fish felt like a surprise. Bigger than the last. We netted them gently, kept them wet, said thank you, and let them go.
That night back at the lodge, when someone asked, “How many did you catch?” We just smiled and said, “Lost count.” Because we don’t fish for numbers. We fish for the places it brings us.
The Lodge at 58 North is more than a lodge – it’s a doorway. A place where your phone loses signal, but your heart picks up something better. Connection. Where you strip down and plunge into a glacial river just to remember how alive you are. Cold hands. Sore arms. Salt in your hair. Joy in your bones.
And yes, I’ll be hosting a trip there in June 2026. You don’t have to know how to fish. Just bring your curiosity and a sense of humor. We’ll cast, cook, cold plunge, and learn.
In both Baja and in Alaska, I’ve learned that water isn’t just scenery – it’s witness. It holds our joy and stories and growth. It reflects us back, not filtered or edited, but real.
When women gather in these places, something shifts. It’s not about competing or proving. It’s about belonging. To the water, to each other, to the rhythm of trying and learning and laughing.
We learn how to tie better knots. But also how to be more patient. More present. More ourselves. And those lessons travel with us, long after the waders are off and the rods are packed away.
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