Summer’s official end — not the one marked on the calendar — came crashing down this morning with the standard fall overcast and threat of rain.
I’m relieved that our Indigenous Summer was short lived, giving way to crisp autumn air, fresh pressed apple cider and that last hustle to any water high enough to keep trout on the pre-winter feedbag. Things have been busy on the fishing front this trout season, with a lot of firsts.
Tied my first flies. Caught the first fish with one of them flies. Landed my first brown since picking up fly fishing in earnest. The first group fishing trip organized by yours truly came off well. (My strategy counted on keeping everyone stuffed with good food in the event fishing was poor. Got lucky. It wasn’t.)
And I made a first attempt at mentoring a gentleman considering joining the sport. The downside is that he’ll now have to unlearn the bad habits I taught him.
In a month I’ll inaugurate the first of hopefully many end-of-season visits to the cabin to do the last bit of trout fishing before the mid November close. I’m trying my level best to balance the
need desire to remove myself from the world via fly fishing with daily commitments and responsibilities, but dates in my mind increasingly are filtered by the opening days of various rivers or Sierra Nevada passes. The wife already knows that any suggestion of travel prompts my immediate inquiry about the inclusion of a fishing day.
Leaving tomorrow for the Seattle area will mean visiting family, gazing slack-jawed at spawning salmon and probably tip toeing between raindrops. And like fly fishing, planning and anticipation is half the fun.