Punching The Clock

I never have enough time to fish all the water I see.


Each new stretch before me seems better than all I have previously fished. Quitting a stream, especially one new to me, is a hard thing. I do not fish methodically, for I need to see what is beyond the next bend of the river. Fishing a new stream to me is part scouting trip for the time in the future when I come back to pick apart the little current seams and cut bank runs.
And always, bigger and better fish lie ahead…ever ahead.

I read books where the author comes to a stream, and sits, quietly observing the water. He thoughtfully considers the proper size and color of fly to present, and waits to cast said fly in perfect synchronicity to the cadence of a rising trout. Meanwhile I have fished three pools and am lustfully eying the fourth.

I wish I could be more like the patient fly fishing gentlemen, but alas, there are few hours in the day, and many waters to experience. So much more so when I am outside my familiar waters and fishing in a destination far removed from my home.

So I cast like a journeyman, rather than the master. and I probably spook many fish. Someday I will mellow, and be thoughtful and full of patience and purpose. But not today.

Epilogue – I wrote the entry above three days ago. Last night I dreamt of fishing for high county trout in a perfect little stream. In my dream I napped on the bank until the golden hour before sunset. I rose, as did trout. I unrolled a short cast, and came tight to the largest cutthroat of the day. So, perhaps now I am ready to slow down and savor. Perhaps.

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