Maybe if I take five more steps, throw one more mend, skate one more fly, a hero will appear, armored in chrome, and dance to the music of my singing reel.
Calf deep now in the cold river, Trent’s completed his prelude of silky false casts and is ready to start the show in earnest.
Over the course of 6 trips, in and out, and nearly 40 miles, I question whether or not it’s worth it.
Folding neatly the greenhead splashed soundly onto the water. The old lady made quick work of the retrieve.
I’m a mediocre to slightly above average angler who’s typically more interested in the places I’m in and the people I share them with than the fish count.
No one accused the conquerors, converters and company men who carved up and labeled North America of being poets. But there are exceptions…
We didn’t talk about it much. I told her I was going elk hunting. She stared at me, madder because she already knew.
Were I a cartoon, the challenge would be represented by a devil on each shoulder, each whispering in my ear — damned if I do, damned if I don’t.
In the house he can be a nightmare. His energy overflows in unproductive ways that drive our entire family crazy. But hit the road with plans to hunt, and all that energy finds a custom fit outlet. It’s as though he becomes a different person.
Finding birds is gratifying under any circumstance out here, but doing so in a place that’s new to you, based on a hunch, some map study, and a hefty dose of legwork is triply so.
Eighteen hours after leaving the house, and 20 miles after leaving the truck, we reached our rig. With the elk in the back and the heater cranked in the cab, we headed for home.
We have a lot to be thankful for here at STS headquarters, and a lot to be excited about looking forward.
Days go by without as much as a peck. Doubt begins to creep in. Are there any fish in the river? Should I change flies? Is my swing too fast…too slow? Why does my rain coat leak?
What’s better than a great find, flush and retrieve? Doing it with an audience and bragging rights on the line.