Final Hours

The end is near. Despite the beauty all around us, the end of another dry fly season looms.

I can feel it slipping away. That most precious season of all the year is drawing swiftly to it’s finale.

The daily high temperatures for the coming week average just 52 degrees, despite the sunshine expected to accompany them. The nighttime lows will flirt with the freezing mark. River temperatures have remained in the fifties, but this will be the week I expect that to change. When the autumn flows reach the forties, I will look no more for rises and glistening wings upon the surface. Ten days have passed since I spotted the white mouth of the last great brown trout to succumb to the enticement of my gently presented dry fly. As each day passes, I wonder if that fish will be the last of the season.

Certainly, I will fish beyond October, beyond the moment of the last rise, though not with the same pleasure, the same burning desire or ultimate contentment when I lift the dripping meshes of the net from the river. The dry fly is special, as is each trout I might deceive and entice to drift up for my fraud; to me, the dry fly is the pure essence of flyfishing. Though I may walk along riverbanks with bamboo in hand, the best of the magic is gone, the moments lack their wonderful energy, their luminosity.

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