Summer

Summer

Summer. The days we dream of. The days that will not be rushed and neither will the trout, who rise when they’re gaddamned ready. Late evenings are good but, better yet, are the early mornings; those times of utter silence, when the entire universe seems asleep. But not the trout. While trout feed heavily on morning spinner falls, most of mankind roll into their duvets, clawing at an extra 10 minutes sleep. But not us. Not the worthy. For blessed is the trout fly fisherman and, more so, the early morning trout fly fisherman. The angler that enjoys a lifetime of spotted heaven, before the world has had a chance to stir. We head home before the late morning heat, smiling the entire way. As the world begins to awaken, I enjoy a late morning coffee and, hell, maybe a cigar, but my mind and heart are always there, and my emotions aflood with the sound of riffles and the feel of cold trout streams. Summer. The days we dream of.

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