A slight wind blows from the east. Just enough to put a steady chop on the lake. In the west, the sun creeps toward the horizon making a sharp glare. Squinting into the water, visibility is next to nothing.
Standing on the bow, the drift boat became a skiff. Tamarisks became mangroves. A reservation reservoir turned into a Bahamian flat. Using the oar as a push pole we move slowly along the shore.
The surface tension of the water was tested as a fish moved from left to right. I expected to see a flash of silver. But the distinct shape of the golden ghost brought us back to home. Line raced through the guides and the fly landed softly. Two strips and a pause. Mud boiled from the bottom. The common carp headed in the opposite direction.