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Last week was heavy. I’m sure I’m not alone in thinking that. I’ve spent some time over the past few weeks contemplating the changing of the seasons, how my seasons in life are altering me.
I reminded myself, and am now reminding all of you, to embrace the song of fall.
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The changing of seasons is always difficult for me. Mostly because I'm impatient and I want it to happen right away. I expect flowers to bloom the first day of spring and 40 degree nights the beginning of autumn. Apparently, mother nature still hasn't received my memo.
Here in Western North Carolina, we've had a particularly long, wet, warm year. Jacob and I recently joked that we saw a groundhog and he told us there would be six more weeks of summer.
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The best years any angler will ever have are their first. It's not that during this time you're particularly good at it, far from it, you're pretty horrible. Most of your time is spent tying on a fly or untangling a knot. Your technique is poor, but you can't quite figure out how to fix it. Everyone else around you catch plenty of fish with seemingly no effort, but you only manage to catch trees and sticks, despite trying your hardest. But make no mistake, these are your best years.
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Some days hiking over the ridge pays off.
"Friend,
When you stray or sit and take your ease
On heath or hill, or under spreading trees,
Pray leave no traces of your wayside meal,
No paper bag, no scattered orange peel,
Nor daily journal littered on the grass;
Others may view these with distaste, and pass;
Let no one say, and say it to your shame,
That all was beauty here until you came."
I've driven past this sign half a dozen times. I always make Jacob pull over so I can read it, admire the flowers growing around it, and feel the breeze flowing through the mountains. Winding down the dirt road I always ask aloud; 'I wonder who wrote that?' And, I forget I've wondered just as soon as I say it. The sentiment, the lesson, is what always stuck.
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We've fished this river for three years, several times a year, but not this section. Instead of heading up, as per usual, we took a gravel road down, until we reached the river. It was much smaller than up yonder, more enclosed, like the tunnels we are used to fishing in back East. Looking down into the small stretch of water there were no flashes of light indicating little trout, but we were already here. Plus, why not try and fish an entire stretch of river?
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