Around the bend, where the trees arch and overhang the stream as to filter the light through to the water's surface, I saw him. He was casting an old bamboo rod delicately and short as to not get hung up. He looked quiet there, settled. His muted green vest matched his fishing hat. His waders were a dark cream color. I thought to call out to him but I knew he would not hear me over the sound of the running currents, all dissecting and rejoining again, as they do on the river. Like us. Disecting off on new adventures, moving swiftly around obstacles. Sometimes swirling and being stifled for a moment in a back eddy, but always somehow managing to rejoin again. That's what the water does in it's perpetual run to the ocean. That's what we do in our perpetual run. Surely, there is an ocean for us. That may be where I see him again.
I hope to rejoin with you all again in 2017. This past year had me disecting off on new adventures and, at times, held up in some back eddys. The water, however, was always there.
The fishing was poor as the grey dusk and cold mist fell over the Beaverkill. There were caddis flies and rising fish, not many, skittering off of the water. Maybe tomorrow. The young trip was colorless so far; dank and muted. That is until my company arrived just before dark fell overhead. "I already got the beer," I reported. (Roscoe Beer Company)
"Well alright, alright," he said.
We did what we do on trips like these; we sat around the fire and caught up with no interruption. We talked, we laughed, we drank and ate like earlier versions of ourselves. The fire was the epi-center of our universe. The sound of the current behind us and the strum of the guitar rang out over the site. The color rushed back into the trip like red must rush into a rose.
The next morning got us some good advice from a guide (Catskill Flies) who happened to sell me some flies the day before. Sometimes an egg sandwich in the right place at the right time does wonders. Hell, I didn't know he ate his breakfast here. Lucky us. Off we went. The rest, as they say, came up roses.
Bring Me Roses - An original tune by yours truly that I strummed that evening.
Hope your spring is coming up roses as well. -- Mike