I am wondering, has the dry fly season come to it’s end? Nearing mid-October and the improvement in fishing that tends to bring has left me waiting and yes, this morning included the S word in the weekly forecast. Saturday lists a high of forty-two degrees and a low of thirty-one, it’s introduction is listed as “rain/snow”. Not winter… not yet!
This afternoon is lovely, sunny, colorful and nearing eighty, yet this lull will mark a fortnight tomorrow. I have wandered, searched and found wanting.
I am torn toward walking the mountains, now at their most beautiful, a scattergun taking the place of split and glued bamboo. The river was swelled by blessed rain, but how quickly it is dissipating. Might tomorrow be the best chance for that afternoon delight, rising trout to a final show of mayflies? My confidence shrinks at the thought, for the winds are expected to return. No trout will rise to tiny olive mayflies between whitecaps!
Each year, I cling to each possible moment of my angling season. Once the dry fly ceases to be the answer, much of the joy for fishing passes unto the cold, dark hours, a prisoner of another winter.
Nothing good shall come of this pondering aloud, so I shall seek a brief, fading moment outdoors. Sitting amid the sun’s fading warmth, I watch the clouds, as if they have the answers I do not.
