The clouds drift above the mountains to the southwest this morning, and though there is a hint of light in them, they speak to me of snow and ice laden watersheds. It is summer in my memories, mornings whose chill is one of anticipation rather than one of ice.
Walking on a bright morning, the sunlight chasing the traces of mist wraiths from the water, I feel the cork between my fingers. Soft footsteps at riverside, I pass in silence to preserve the spell. Here, where everything before me speaks of promise, I slip into the golden glow of rippled waters. It is quiet save for the music of those waters, and the ratchet of the reel breaks the lyrical refrain as I pull line from it’s spool to cast.
The transformation from this world of peace comes as an electric shock, for as the shaft of cane is raised into a graceful arch the gentle riffle explodes again and again with the leaps of a great fish! The reel screams with his swift departure as the rod arches deeper, and that electricity flows through me, touching my very soul.
As summer waxes I stalk misty mornings, the fog thick enough to obscure the sounds of the hunters. I move as soundlessly as I am able, casting to pockets of soft water revealed by the moving mists, the tension as thick as the air! Oft the fly is unseen, so I watch it drift gently in my mind as fly and thought become one.
Some days the hunters betray themselves, and a quick cast is required to meet opportunity at river’s edge. When the spirit is awakened the chorus of an old Hardy runs through the throbbing drumbeats of the bouncing rod and my heart smiles with the symphony of the chase!
If only it was not so long until these wondrous bright and misty mornings might come to pass once more!
Bright Waters Catskill 