The Stream

[Feathers and Fins]

I wrote this afte a day on Taney awhile back it was a great inspiration that day watching a elderly man that to me had learned the lessons of simple pleasures

The Stream

He was just below the towering dam a massive structure of concrete and steal, it was at the head a canyon whose peaks actually stood high above this man made structure. But where this man stood was along the banks of a cold crisp clean river. A light breeze was flowing through the canyon gently rustling leaves as it whispered through the cedar and dogwood trees.

Trout could be seen cruising the shallow banks of the river; Butterflies were as numerous as the golden brown and orange leaves falling from the trees. It was a fall morning and a brisk chill was in the air letting all know that winter would soon be upon this canyon covering the hills in a soft white blanket of purity.

Today the man stood by the creek with a fly rod in hand, an an old wicker basket slung over his shoulder, a clean white cowboy hat sat firmly on his head as firmly as his waders were pressed against his legs as he entered the cool waters. He reached to his left shoulder, where the cotton tuff on his fly vest held many hand tied flies. That tuff looked like a Christmas tree with many little lights on it but these were the colors of the many flies and not lights.

The water gently flowed over stones with a tranquil soft sound that was pleasing and relaxing. He could hear stones come together as he gently walked toward a quiet pool up stream of him being careful not to cast his shadow or trod to heavily as to spook any weary trout that may live there.

As he approached the pool he gently stripped line from his reel and began to make the long fluid cast that only many years could truly teach. His cast was perfect and with intent, he landed the little fly at the head of the pool and watched it drift slowly back the line riding the waves like a small branch gently rolling down the stream.

Though his cast was perfect it met with no takers, he gently looped his rod and made a nice role cast that landed but a couple of feet to the side from the first, as it started back just as the first a trout rose on the fly but then turned to settle back down. The man had seen this and smiled knowing that this pool had trout living in it.

He gently pulled the line back through his rod and untied the fly. Looking around he saw no live flies dipping to the water, this in his mind could only mean the trout should be feeding on midges. He found in his old cedar fly box a beautifully tied red and black zebra midge he had tied some time back.

Carefully tying the midge on and placing a tufted strike indicator about 3 feet above it he again started the magical ballet of casting the fly pole. His cast landed a few feet above where the trout rose; as the indicator passed over the spot he believes his first pass may have spooked the fish. When like a rabbit vanishing in to its hole the indicator shot below the surface.

He raised his rod tightening the lining and setting the hook. The fight was on! A jump from this trout told him it was a nice rainbow its silver red and green showed brilliantly as the sun lit them up as the fish jumped clear of the water. Its white belly gave its position away under water darting from side to side trying to free itself from this fight.

As the man pulled it ever so gently ever so much closer he reached behind his back and pulled a beautiful black and red landing net he had made himself years ago. He gently ushered the trout in to the net and walked to shore with it. He was careful not to place the fish on dry ground or to harm it more than was needed as he gently reached under it and lifted it up to remove the hook.

He admired this rainbow that lived in the water just as he admired the rainbow of mist just above that the dam was causing as water rushed over it. He gently placed the trout back in the water and then sat next to the creek on a boulder with a smile on his face. He lit a fine pipe and crossed his legs and took in all the scenery that abound him. Listening to the squirrels running through the leaves behind him seeing other trout rise in front and a large bald eagle perched on a old dead oak tree just up the river.

Peace was upon him and all the creatures this day not a soul to be seen, he had this creek to himself and to himself he would share it and all that was about it. The sights sounds and smells he would make a mental picture of as he surveyed for the next pool to replay this in.

[barredrock]

Nice, read, thanks