A quiet lake flashes dark, at the slow speed of remaining daylight.
Life in the mountains is slow.
I enjoy it while I dock my rod on a sage bush and plant myself to the ground. The cool air brushing past the black vines of hair on my head reminds me that autumn bliss is near its end; and I think about how the sky, briefly, is most colorful before the sun sets.
As if asking, ”Are you sure you’d like me to leave?” the sun imposes its proudest colors on the horizon.
All while, the crescent moon begins to spin stellar webs and splendidly answers such a gentle question. In a poem of misty clouds and starlight, the night speaks to me, and I retire my stead. Footprints lead me back to the dusty door of my vehicle and the night sky sends me off.
I’ll be back soon, I think to myself, and am reminded that once again– life in the mountains is slow.
My tread will trace itself here, and the small white fly on the end of my leader will be found on the lake’s north bank, stuck in spiny cattails.
Dwarfish brown trout will twist and wiggle in my crooked, red net. The sage will watch from the bank and waltz in every shade of sunset.
My muddy car will rev and rumble on cool asphalt, and toes will meet gravel for a brief moment. I will stumble and soak my sleeves in chilly currents. I will strap on sweaty climbing shoes and approach my favorite chunk of granite.
Ice will creep into footholds and snow in my boots– which will plummet and witness cat tracks three feet above. My waders will hibernate until March and scorn ski pants that thrive in January’s joy. Months in waist-deep snow will keep my mace at hand.
I will resurrect my fly box. Silver guides on my rod will drip with warming frost. Waters will run with swift rage, and hiking boots will dominate.
My tent will tear the horizon, and from defeated snow, larkspurs will bloom. The small white fly will dance in cattails. The north bank will hold little brown trout. The clouds will come to a close and I will dock my rod once more.
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