Soft hackles, eight feet of split bamboo, and my trusty Copper Fox: these are the things which get me to wandering as autumn passes. Oh yes! I still carry dry flies, far too many when I know they are only along as balm to my tangled thoughts.
Swinging seems to fit my mood as it does the nature of these autumn rivers. It requires little thought: a cast repeated, the long, slow swing, then two steps downstream. There is no figuring the fall of the fly tight to cover where leviathan lurks, no manipulation of the aerial line to finesse long drag free drifts. The sun is out, the rivers rising just a bit from another missed promise, and I need a walk beside bright water. The rod masquerades to give me purpose.
As the current slides downstream the line follows, the unseen fly drifting below with some tiny quiver of life. Life searches out life, and on occasion that connection is revealed, though not expected. The swing is part ritual and part farewell.
Bright Waters Catskill 