Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Fly Fishing in Maine
It is December and the snow lies cold upon the fields. The wind roars through the pines and whistles around the corners of the house. It is time to put on another log and inch closer to the wood stove.
But the eye of the mind sees what is hidden from the other senses. It sees the morning mist lifting from the quiet surface of a stream meandering through the back country of Maine. A canoe makes a sharp turn around an oxbow, heading upstream to where the water makes music on the hidden rocks. The man sitting in the stern thrusts his paddle deep into the water, holding the canoe on line just opposite an undercut bank overhung with bushes. The man in the bow lifts his flyrod. Line shoots back, forward, back, forward, and with the final thrust of the rod, a Royal Coachman lights easily upon the surface. A splash. A flash of yellow. A rod tip dancing in the morning light.
The snow lies upon the grass, and icy pellets clatter against the window panes. But the heart is not hostage to the weather,nor to the calendar nor the clock.
P.S. - I'll paddle first, and after the first fish we'll switch off...
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