“If you get to Sleeping Elephant you’ve gone too far, but if you don’t get to the Kinnikinic Store you’re not quite there”. Advice I received from the easily excited shop employee, as he restocked a dwindling supply of streamer hooks. This type of advice is given in such a manner that both heightens your sense of curiosity, but also makes you intriguingly suspicious. So like any fly fisherman worth his or her salt, the plan was made, and the run up the canyon was set.
I hadn’t been fishing particularly well as of late, but with some friends coming into town this weekend, I felt the need to go scout some water before their arrival. And seeking redemption from my last “guiding” experience, the pressure of putting others on fish has slowly been building over the past week or so. So as surely as these exploits will be written about, I do not want to be the one who has their invite “lost in the mail” for future outings.
The changing season could be felt as the soft autumn wind brushed the tops of the knee high grass. And taking notice of the leaves that had started to change from green to gold, I walked in harmony with both wind and magic. The meadow opened up before me, embracing me, guiding me to a river I thought I knew. So, like a college freshman returning home for Thanksgiving, I walked through its doors. Expecting things to be the same, but wary of the time away.
The size 10 Dave’s Hopper hung up in the grass on the far bank for a split second before it fell with a subtle splash inches from the water’s edge. The momentary pause of the faux bug was the last look I got before an angry swirl engulfed the fly.
Laughing…I set the hook.