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Broad and flat, the stream bed fanned out of a long gravel reach and I caught two nice fish, eyeing the vanishing point of the river in a tall dark V of country just beyond where I crouched on one knee after releasing them, taking a moment to look around, letting my pulse settle.I stood at the margin of the first pool where the cliff sheared away above, the extremity cantilevered out over the water and the deep green of the channel beneath it shading into emerald, where daylight pierced the canopy and illuminated a small flurry of mayflies above the run.
I made a bight in the line and fed it through the guides - counting, because I always count through the guides, though I could not tell you how many of them there are, being always distracted by the sound of the river, and the ambient thrum in the blood that precedes beginning - tied on a large, vague ant pattern, secured my hat and keys, and wandered down to the water.
From road to river all the intervening land is posted, and taken together these two facts require a fair hike within the high water mark - and time enough to get back out again - in order to fish the heart of the bend.
At a certain age you notice that time accelerates as your experience of it lengthens, each passing moment a smaller part of your life than the moment prior.
Thanks, - JF Last summer I fished a river I used to fish regularly, on a hard-to-reach stretch I’d noted in years prior but never got around to investigating.
The river bellies away from the road there a mile or more, cutting a sheer wall from a fold of granite.