New structures are in place. Beaver at work shoring up dams and lodges against impending winter snows. It is beaver, I suspect, who muddied the water of this small creek. Above their dam, the water is clear. I have to have clear water. My mind is muddy. I can't think straight. I come to clear water to be cleansed.
It's early afternoon and hot. Ten degrees warmer than usual. It's been a dry summer and as mentioned, the grasses show it. I hear the crackle of dehydration with each step.
Low water produces skittish trout, yet I see shadows in the deeper water. Silhouettes rise, turn, then flash. Reflectance of sun and color spark towards my eyes before sinking to shadows again.
I stand still, a heron watching. Two small trout swim behind a larger one. If I cast a fly into the area chances are the smaller trout will rush to the fly and if hooked will scare the larger trout away. I wait. I need a curve cast with the line to the left of the trout. The leader and fly must curve to the right. The cast must be long enough to give the larger trout first chance at the offering. I cast. Another flash of fish; another flash of time. The large trout takes the fly quick. I pull back and watch my rod tip bend, then gaze out at disturbed water and spinning trout. The same joy and adrenaline is released to my heart and brain that has been released with this same scenerio for over thirty-five years. I wonder: why does the pursuit of trout never get old to me? Questions again!
I place my hand down to grasp the trout. It's skin is slick and moist. Gently, I remove the hook from its jaw and slide it head first back into the water. The trout bolts for its sanctuary of deeper water and over-hanging brush. Another circle is complete: stalk, cast, rise, lift, play, land, admire, release, breath again.