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