I’m paddling on a lake in Montana when clouds turn greyer and begin to spit. It’s a leisurely ride so I’m not that far from the dock and there’s sunlight over the ridge. Those two things mean there’s a rainbow close by. My boys are fishing off the dock for rainbow trout, so there are two elusive rainbows in the offing.

I scan the sky but nothing appears. Oh well, I think, and brush a drop from the sleeve of my jacket. Another replaces it and circles are born from the disturbances pinging the lake’s surface.

“I got one!” says my eldest. He pulls in the line and I’m close enough to see the fish’s skin shine even in the diminished sunlight. The creature wriggles enough that it takes two attempts before he can enfold it in his hands just right to calm the movement. Up close, the colors separate into pink, yellow, and green. We’ve caught a rainbow from the depths.

Looking up and behind the dock, a rainbow has formed in the sky. The sun has scattered light wavelengths in just the right way to produce a twin sister as well - it’s reversed and faint, but it’s there against the background of the dark grey clouds.  

Then, the sun intensifies. The colors radiate brighter as we slip the fish back in the water and it disappears deep to recover from being out of its mileu. By the time we look back, the clouds have dissipated and the rainbows have vanished.  

All are gone: the atmospheric phenomenon known for its brevity and the creature unable to survive in the air. We touched one, we dreamt about being within the other. We stood on the dividing line between the two, on the very ground where the fish couldn’t survive and the rainbow couldn’t touch.

We were in the precise place to experience both; to touch and to see, and then we blinked our eyes and they faded.

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