Fly fishermen tend to be a hopeful crowd, anticipating the next trip, the next river, the next cast.
No different, I saw time slow to the proverbial crawl the past few days as my countdown moved from days to hours, then minutes. But by now, me and my gear are headed in the general direction of Hot Creek, Crowley Lake and the rest of the Eastern Sierra. So y’all will get a break from me.
The plan is to fish when we have daylight and regale our cohorts with stories when the drape of darkness descends from the Sierra Nevadas. That and enjoy one of our fishing partner’s home-made brew. No, the beer wasn’t the reason for his invite.
Tonight means a stay at the cabin, telling myself to get some shut-eye early but instead bouncing off the walls with expectancy. Truthfully, I’ll probably fiddle with the gear, add tippet to leaders, pore over the inventory of flies, and finally submit to staring at the ceiling waiting for Mr. Sandman.
Then it’ll be up at sunrise, eager to load my gear in the truck that will be shared for the 152.4 miles to the bump on the side of U.S. Highway 395 called Tom’s Place, our home for three days for myself and eight fellow club members.
Weather looks good. The scenery will be grand. Fishing could be great. Can’t wait.