Early Morning Stream

For me fly fishing has always been a sort of spiritual experience, a way to worship the world around. Late August in the Big Thompson Canyon, is a great place to spend a day getting lost in the wonder of nature, and the sound of the river - and hopefully catch a few fish too! -. As I pulled off the road, I found a quiet spot untouched, peaceful, lonely - perfect.

As I stepped out my car and into the cool, early morning air I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and centered my self among the tall pines. The sun had not yet risen in the deep mountain valley where little light penetrated the early morning dew. As night turned into day I watched as fog rose off the surface of the river, floating into the air casting shadow and mystery all along the banks of a quiet river system. 

I began to set up, using the light from my car to clearly see my gear. I pulled on my waders, twisted the BOA laces on my boots, and zipped up my vest. Finally I connected the pieces of my rod and led the line through each guide with precision, careful not to miss any. I selected a fly and made my way to the early morning stream, ready for a day on the water.

The river cut through the valley as sunlight just began to just kiss the peaks and hills overhead. The water rippled over rocks; insects skipped over the surface dancing in the twinkling light reflecting off the crystal water. I felt the weight of the line soar through the air lying gently atop the flowing stream as I lay my first cast. Back and forth I moved, the melodic rhythm of the fly fishers dance, a tempo and pattern crafted from years of practice. 

My line floating down stream, moving along ripples, scraping by rocks. The bright green contrasting the dark brown of the rocky river bottom as clear water carried the line downstream. The surface breaks with a splash and my fly is taken under, the green line pulled tight in my hand. “FISH ON!” I say to no one but my lonely self.

The fish jumps in the air, sending water splashing out and breaking the silence of the quiet morning. I reel against the fighting trout pulling it closer and closer until finally I lean over and net the trout, tired from our short battle the fish calms down. Letting me look and observe I can finally take in the color and size of the prized fish. A German speckled beauty, shades of brown cascading and combining all along its skin, dark spots covering its back and sides, and  striking orange dotted near the bottom sides of the river wonder. I pluck the fish from the cool mountain water. I remove my hook, I lean down to return the fish home, taking a second to thank it as the fish rips through the water out of sight back to its home among the boulders and moss that make up the mountain river. 

As I take in the air around me, I am at peace, I am reminded of the balance and the majesty all around me. I put my net back in it’s place, settle my feet, and begin to cast again.