The Void

Coincidentally, this absence in Blogging is juxtaposed to a deficiency in fishing. Not that days on the water are the sole inspiration for babbling, but days casting a fly or wandering through open spaces definitely correlate to my sense of creativity, or lack there of depending on how this gibberish is view.

A Blog on the state of affairs of rods has been in the works over this lapse of time. Typical of such undertakings, re-reads and writings left me with little enthusiasm for the subject matter. Towards the end, rather than finalize the endeavor, I’d convinced myself that most don’t care anyway. Other tainted influences also led to the termination of my last efforts: death, graduation, ailing parents, work, all drubbed any peripheral pleasures and justifiably so.

It’s been over a month since I was near enough to water to hear its movement. It was a beautiful Sunday; overcast, cool and snowing. Blue Wings were hatching, and this early season mayfly prefers such weather. For the vast majority of those who recreate just the opposite can said. Such in-climate days leave the most longing for fairer weather, an added bonus for those who venture out on days when the skies spit a bit of moisture.

I met “Snake” about a half mile down river. Discounting our vehicles there were only two others in the lot by the time I arrived and rain had turned to snow. Given the dense stratum of aging snow that still covered the valley, their occupants didn’t wander far.

We worked our way a mile or so further before we found a perch somewhat sheltered from the wind and increasing flurries. Before departing a plethora of waterfowl would parade before us on the placid pool that lay before us: Mallards, Geese, Goldeneye’s and Northern Pintail’s. Several Red-tail’s occupied the rivers towering yet naked cottonwoods, their voice distinct from other species in the family. A group of disgruntled Sandhills beckoned as if defiantly questioning their arrival into this wintry scene, given the warm confines they left in milder climates. With such distractions, as time passed intent conversations and observations took over as fishing became an afterthought.

By the time we’d headed home joints had become stiff, neither of us making a cast. We’d arrived optimistically hoping to encounter a quite stormy afternoon and a river laced with emerging mayflies, yet not a single delicate sail drifted aimlessly upon the rivers mirrored currents. Even under our most scrupulous glare could a single trout be willed to the surface.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to appreciate such days; to be with a friend, to sit on the bank of a trout stream in solitude, to witness life in a simpler setting. Fishing brings one to such places, a harbor from life’s distractions. These days to catch a fish only adds to the cornucopia of life experiences when one’s attracted to water. To ask more of a day on the water would only take away from what fishing with a fly has to offer.