Contrary to recent content, this is still a fishing blog. And if I’m going to call it one, I guess I’d better report such activity now and again. It’s not like I don’t get out – I do, fairly regularly – but not all fishing trips warrant a post. In fact, most don’t, and that’s the beauty of them.
Every trip to the water doesn’t need to be epic.
The true joy of fly fishing is in the simple, subtle threads that weave their way through the fabric of the day. It’s the cessation of any conscious thought that extends beyond the next cast, the next drift, the next step. It’s appreciating the sights and sounds and sensations of your escape – without analysis, without judgment, without control. It’s absorbing your surroundings through the pores of your skin. The true joy of fly fishing does not make good copy.
|... watching the sun rise in your rear-facing mirrors|
|... breathing the frosty morning air|
|... appreciating that which has been left behind|
|... sensing the contours of the stream|
|... wondering where the next path might lead|
And this barely scratches the surface.
So yesterday’s outing was perfect in it’s nondescriptness. There was nothing worth writing about. Nothing happened that hasn’t happened a hundred times before. Nothing was unusual. Nothing was special.
And therein lies its singularity and its joy.