The Year's First Fish

Third cast. There. By the root ball. There’s always one there.

Five o’clock alarm. Six o’clock on the road. Allman Brothers riding along. Autopilot jams.

Morning rush hour in Greensboro. Don’t care. Goin' fishin'. You’re my blue skies, you’re my sunny day.

Empty trailhead. Love fishing on Wednesdays.

Cold. Colder than expected. Sun peeks above ridge, but can get no higher. Too heavy with winter. Ice on the southern shores.

Familiar water. Wide, shallow riffles. Deeper run along left bank, beneath the sycamore. Always start at the sycamore.

Olive woolly. Size 8. Wire wrapped under chenille. Gets it down. Flash in the tail. Red gill finish. John’s recipe. Nothing sophisticated. Just a bugger.

Cast left, to nine o’clock, above the roots. Let it tumble. Start the swing below. Wait for the strike. Now.

Nice bend in the 4wt. Alive.

Slender, twelve-inch rainbow. Painted in pastels. Bye bye Mr. Skunk. Hello new year.

Cast again. There. By the cut bank. There’s always one there.

Don't worry folks. I've not gone all poetic on you. Truth is, these were my quickly jotted notes to be used to compose a proper post. But, as I looked at them, it occurred to me that they stood well on their own. I could only screw them up. I hope you agree.