I determined not to make this blog one dedicated to a single facet of my personality…namely my love for fly fishing. There are blogs dedicated to single interests, but I didn’t want that restriction. Besides, not all my friends are not as interested as I in that pursuing fish with a fly, and I didn’t want to run them off. Alas, this entry will be almost entirely fishy. But do come along.
There is not a day that passes that I don’t think, talk, read or dream about fly fishing. Sometimes I am working in the man room tying flies. Sometimes I am just flipping through one of my several magazines or catalogs, dreaming of fishing trips to Colorado, Alaska, Chile…and so on. Other times I am working on restoring the old fly rod of dad’s that I am rebuilding. It was the first fly rod I ever used as a young boy, but that is a story for another time. You get the picture. But I am not obsessed. I can quit anytime I want to. Really…
It has been a couple weeks since I have been to the streams and creeks. I am getting edgy with the continual press of responsibility; without the release I get from fly fishing. The little creek near the house is very low now. I haven’t been there lately.
A river is not far away…a limestone bedded river with stretches of gin clear water. It is mostly overlooked by other fisherpersons, to my delight.
My bride is planning a getaway (known in our house as the “girls gone mild” tour) this weekend, leaving me to fend for myself. Perhaps…just perhaps the time will be right for a tryst with the sunrise on the river known only by a few.
A time to listen to the magic sound of water running over stone… birds singing their breakfast songs…
A time to feel night-cooled water seep into my boots and wash away the work weariness that has accumulated like so much dust on my soul…
A time to be lost in the rythmic poetry of casting a fly and watching it land feather-soft on smooth-as-glass water.
A time to live.