This is why "I" fish...
Every day, perfection is achieved. The sun incessantly rises and parts the veil of darkness that has hidden creation's majesty. Mere mortals are we who become drunk with the fact of this daily occurance, though few of us think enough of the event to pay homage to the miraculous, instead choosing to neglect this miracle, taking it for granted.
On this particular Saturday, I heard others speak of the "threat" of rain, like this event would dampen spirits and lend a hint of the melancholy to a potentially spectacular day. I, on the other hand, rejoiced at this opportunity to hike into fish a backcountry stream wondering just how the sunrise may appear. Would it be a slow crescendo of light that slithers through the darkness almost unnoticed? Or would wisps of clouds catch radiant reds adding brilliance to the miracle? I staggered through the opaque world of shadows with excited expectancy singing to myself to alert potential others (bears) of my presence.
I reached the stream and poured myself onto the bank. While perched on the moistened ground, my mind throbbed with jubilation. Anticipation permeated my thoughts with reddish hues that cascaded across the canvas of my imagination. For some reason, I anticipated orange.
As I peered out from my resting place, I noticed flickering leaves that danced on currents of air had already shown their green pigments. the sunrise had ambushed me without an opulent show of fanciful color. I preceeded to the stream.
As yellow line fired through the guides of my green four-weight Winston rod, my imagination still thirsted for orange. After a few false casts to release enough line for my first cast of the day, my pheasant-tail nymph finally submerged itself in the crytalline current. Whent the strike detector disappeared a swift backward thrust of my rod connected trout to fly and time stalled. A short fight later and the celebration of the sunrise began. As the clouds parted, the spotlight was on my hand and the 8-inch brook trout cradled within my grasp. My eyes barely noticed the pink and yellow spots, instead racing to the fish's orange belly where the sun chose to dance.
That'll do, got2fish. That'll do. :smile:
Looking at a brookie, it's like God went crazy with his 64 count Crayola box.
"Thank you oh merciful professor of poetry and trout"...
took most of the stress off of my day, wrapped it in your colors and floated it down the stream!
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