A River that Remembers

At the confluence of waters, and rivers, lies memories, practice, and the culmination of craft. These places braid together and quietly shape a lifetime. The delicate presentation of a fly, offered without drift, is never instinctive; it is practiced, refined in solitude, and carried forward in community by those willing to teach.

Music asks the same of us. It asks the same of us as practicers and listeners. Playing with elegant phrasing and communicating something profound, meaningful, or curious to your audience requires intentionality. What seems like raw talent may actually be a well-developed and practiced skill. A skill of being self-aware, patient, and free.

For me, the San Juan River in Pagosa Springs Colorado and with a thoughtfully loaded internal frame pack, Upper Fourmile Lake provides four decades of craft. This has become the place I seek sanctuary and refuge. Stillness in this consecrated water has always brought me clarity. Oh how I wish I had spent more time listening to my heart while fly-fishing this country. Stillness, with only the sound of distant winds on the steep crags and running water must also be practiced. 

The San Juan River begins in high volcanic country, where snowfields dissolve into motion and silence learns to sing. It wanders from alpine cold into broad, sun‑washed valleys, threading forests, plateaus, and the first whispers of desert. Shaped by fire long gone and water still at work, the river moves with the patience of deep time, carrying memory the way music carries breath.

The Upper Fourmile is high alpine emerald green and begs me to arrive quietly, almost apologetically, hoping it might let me hunt along the bank for a while. The river and the lake teach these lessons: presence matters more than force, patience more than power, perfection is not the goal, but rather casting with confidence and forgiveness.

I pitch my tent above treeline and assemble my Loomis 5wt, taking with me only my net, cutters, and a few flies. I don't need my entire arsenal because maybe catching isn't the goal. No phone, no people, nothing pressing, and it takes a while to slip into wilderness. Letting pressures fall away but allowing dreams and vision to come naturally. Being present in this landscape is restoring my soul. Gratitude, contentment, peace. 

It’s here that many of the deepest threads of my life—the music, the wilderness, the mentors, the students—have quietly braided together. The practice room is where I spend time working on technique, musical mastery, conditioning, and creative projects. The stage is where I get to tell my story. The river is where I soak in wilderness, beauty, and pay attention to what is going on with the trout, water, and ultimately, my soul. Reflection, meditation, and prayer help me quiet my mind, worry less, and seek patience. Stillness and quiet with a singular focus, this gives me strength, patience and appreciation for friends and family, some lost to me now. 

Fly fishing the San Juan is not about the fish. Not really. It’s about learning to read water the way a musician learns to read silence. It’s about attention—how wind bends my loop on my back cast, how light hits a seam, how timing transforms effort into grace. Somewhere between a failed drift and a perfect one, you understand that this skill—like music—is passed down. 
Someone showed me how to do this.

Legacy Is What We Pass Down

Every meaningful pursuit begins with a guide, a mentor, a father.

In the backcountry, that guide was Chet Russell—a climbing and wilderness mentor who shaped my understanding of what it means to move through wild places with humility. Through Voice of Wilderness, Chet taught me that leadership in the mountains isn’t about elevation gained, or peaks bagged, but awareness sharpened. Backpacking into remote terrain, climbing exposed routes, journaling at the end of long days—those experiences forged a deep respect for risk, restraint, and reverence.

Music gave me this same gift. My father showed me how to live and learn, and he was an extraordinary musician and adventurer and craftsman. He taught me to pursue my talent, and allowed me to fail just enough. I think about him nearly every day.

As a young trombonist, I was formed profoundly by my time studying with David Waters of the Houston Symphony and the Trombones of the Houston Symphony. David was not simply a great musician; he was a man who understood craft as stewardship. He taught me how to prepare, how to listen, and—most importantly—how to carry myself in a profession built on trust.

David and my father have since passed, but their voice remains with me every time I lift the instrument, explore the backcountry or cast my fly-rod. Their lessons echo the same truth the mountains teach: excellence is quiet, earned, and shared.

At Mountain Light Music Festival, mentorship is not a curriculum—it’s a posture. Students often arrive with formidable technique. My hope is that they leave with lineage and a truer identity. 

 Music and Wilderness Speak the Same Language

Over the past twenty years, I’ve invited dozens of students into the high country—not just to study trombone, but to live inside a rhythm that includes fly fishing, backcountry hiking, camp meals, early mornings, and long conversations. These trips weren’t retreats from music; they were extensions of it.

In the wilderness, distractions fall away. There’s nowhere to hide—from weather, from fatigue, from honesty. Music works the same way. In a rehearsal room or on a mountaintop, sound reveals who you are that day: prepared or distracted, generous or guarded.

This is the soul of Mountain Light.

Mornings begin with mountain air and quiet intention. Afternoons unfold in rehearsals where listening matters more than talking. Evenings often end with chamber music played in intimate spaces—concerts that invite both vulnerability and courage.

Chamber music, like fly fishing a living river, rewards attentiveness. You can’t rush it. You must listen—to the ensemble, to the space, to something larger than yourself.

This summer, I’m especially grateful to be joined by my wonderful colleagues from the University of Houston—artists I respect deeply, musicians whose generosity and intellect elevate every note they play. Together, we’ll bring elevated chamber music into these wild places—not to impress, but to offer something honest and enduring.

So, it is this culmination of everything that matters to me, music, adventure, purpose, all with an elevated presentation. I want to do all of this with a select few friends, meeting new music lovers, teaching fly casting, guiding a few on short day hikes, and spending the evening listening to some of the finest young artists in the country. Our creative Chef, Clay Berry has become a good friend and will be providing wonderful meals during our time together at Elk Lake Interludes. My good friend Steve Wilson, John Whitaker, our MLMF team and families will introduce you to these artists and invite you to join us for pre-concert drinks, and post-concert discussions with our artists.

Explore our artists – Zelter String Quartet, Trio Magnoliana, and a night of opera arias with Elizabeth Hanje, Luka Tseveldize and Laura Bleakley will be staying at the Elk Lake Lodge with us. This is a relaxed week of beautiful music, well-crafted food, and your choice of outdoor excursions.

 The Community Awaits You

I’m not selling a trip. I’m asking for your charitable contribution to help Mountain Light Music Festival grow, provide scholarships for students and secure our future. 

You can make an impact and create permanence. This experience provides meaningful stewardship for you, and we want to recognize your gift. This aligns with your personal values and enhances our vision for an elevated music festival for the future. This opportunity exists for those who believe in the future of this organization.

Elk Lake Interludes: A Legacy Donor Retreat – we are inviting six donor groups to join us in our shared vision of securing the Mountain Light Music Festival in Pagosa Springs for years to come.

The Journal: Where Craft Becomes Conscious

Every serious angler I know keeps notes.

Water conditions. Missed opportunities. New waters. The small decisions that mattered, what was on your mind, revelations, wisdom revealed, what became more clear, where should we focus next, and who needed our love. Surrender. Worship.
I’ve carried that practice into music and teaching. I encourage students to journal—not to memorialize success, but to notice growth. What shifted today? Where did I listen better? Where did I rush? What surprised me? Drawing the lens in and out from error focused to freedom.

At Mountain Light Music Festival, journaling becomes a bridge between experience and intention. It slows learning just enough for understanding to catch up.

The San Juan teaches this too. Years later, I don’t remember how many fish I caught. I remember the light, the conversation, the feeling of standing in cold water with time suspended. I remember my friend Scott and I fly-fishing perfect water between rehearsals in Harrisburg. Those moments don’t just pass—they shape you. Gosh, I miss Scott. 

Relationships Are the Real Catch

When students look back on their time at Mountain Light, they rarely talk first about repertoire. They talk about people.

They talk about shared meals, early hikes, awkward beginnings, breakthrough rehearsals. They talk about being challenged—and being believed in.

Teaching for me has never been about replication. It’s about invitation, about helping students recognize their own voice and giving them the tools—and the courage—to trust it.

Like fishing, mentorship requires patience. You don’t force the take. You wait for the moment when readiness meets opportunity, and those opportunities, like fly-fishing, can come unexpectedly. The take may be subtle but the hook set is deliberate. 

Purpose, Lifted

The San Juan doesn’t announce itself. It simply flows—year after year—shaping land and lives through consistency rather than spectacle.

That is the model I keep returning to.

Mountain Light Music Festival exists to form artists who understand that excellence and humility are not opposites, and that purpose deepens when it’s shared. Music is the medium—but formation is the mission.

To step into wilderness.
To commit to craft.
To honor mentors.
To walk alongside students.
To write it down.
To return changed.
That is why we gather—year after year, generation after generation.
Because a life well‑crafted—like a well‑played phrase, like a clean cast into a living river—doesn’t just happen.
It’s practiced.
It’s passed down.
It’s shared.
And it’s remembered.
​
We invite you to be a part of Elk Lake Interludes this summer. We invite you to a concert in Pagosa this summer. Please say hello, maybe we can fish together. 
 
Brent Phillips | Director

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