Originally published at crisis magazine
As I scuttled down the rocky bank amid the chilly, biting air of a cloudy November morning, my ears perked to the sound of the rushing water coming from the stream below. The musical dance of the crystal-clear water weaving in, out, and over the rocks and boulders served as a siren song. This song, as though it were played by the Pied Piper of Hamelin himself, has led many an angler to the water; and on this particularly dreary day, I was no exception. I had once more fallen victim to the familiar and enchanting tune of a place where trout live.
The cold, the leafless trees, the dull grey of the sky, and even the grudging acceptance of the high probability of not netting a fish this day, couldn’t keep me from the water this late-Autumn morning. I was going fishing. Fly fishing to be precise. And perhaps for no more reason than the principle set forth in the perennially-referenced fisherman’s proverb: “A bad day fishing is better than a good day at the office.”
The morning went as expected, mostly slow and cold with a few lazy attempts by weary brown trout to strike my poorly placed
