Storm clouds dissipated, but the thundering winds still whirled snowflakes about my face. The western mountains were black, and the clouds seemed as shadows fleeing the valley. My hands were purdy cold and the fish had quit biting. But I kept fishing.
Sometimes the river keeps me. Who am I to fight it? I stepped cautiously over boulders, barely keeping my footing as my concentration beamed toward the back-eddy, black in front of me. The rhythm of cast - retrieve - lift rod tip - cast, in an almost waltz-like tempo was all that I felt -- besides my cold hands. My really cold hands. And just as it seemed the dance about boulders was about to end, my line went tight, and I set a deep bend in my Sweetgrass four weight hex.
The dance continued, this time fast circles and leaps in relentless and unforgiving timing -- a black night disco inferno. Yes I was alive in the 70s. Not old enough to really disco, though.
Anyway, the last leap from a chubby Rainbow, ended as I escorted it to my hand.
A beautiful being and casting partner, in my hand and on the boulders:-)
In Wild Waters,
Zac Sexton
The Meandering Booboy
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