Right outside this lazy summer home
You aint got time to call your soul a critic no.
Right outside the lazy gate of winters summer home,
Wondrin where the nut-thatch winters,
Wings a mile long just carried the bird away. “Eyes Of The World” – Robert Hunter

Ask for a mixed drink anywhere you go, and it’s likely not going to be exactly the same as the last one you had at that other place – local flavor, or the attitude of the slinger that day, or perhaps you’re bringing something to the bar that flavors your drink in a more esoteric way.  Either way, it’s the first day of September, and as it happens the sun rose this morning in such a different way as to slightly touch the corner of my roof – perched for the morning soak, Eyes breezes through the speakers and it comes to me – the Sun is lower in the sky, and the warmth extends itself in a different way as well.  As we get closer to Fall, the day is now measured by how much the water warms and brings to life the river.  Technique changes, and it’s less noisy in the coming months too.  Orange and yellow begin to slowly influence the palate of the day, soon to dominate the green, then surrendering to the gray and white and winter’s blanket of snow.

I’m looking forward to Winter this year, not just for the change in season but for it to be deservedly quiet; the noise of summer has worn it’s welcome.  It makes you wonder if it’s just as awkward for nature to change seasons – putting on a pair of pants the other day, it felt like it was too early.  “What is this fabric from my knees to my ankles?” my calves seem to ask, and I can only acknowledge and then wonder just where the cold-weather dry bag is – the wool socks, down jackets, fleece hats.  Shuddering at the cold I know I’ll feel soon I quickly move to the shorts drawer and give that pair of shorts one more chance.  The long-sleeved shirts, however, are moving to the top drawer.

I’m stuck in a particular eddy, around how fly fisherman interact with our cold water resources, and how we leave it.  I took a nice drive up the river road yesterday, and it was too easy – and I feared, what have I missed?  Did my comments mean nothing, do the voices of those who love this river sink below the weight of vox populi – make wilderness easy by paving the way.  A few shaker potholes, the smaller waves in the gravel that kick rocks off the side, the occasional “ting” on the fenders sound like seconds on the clock.  I smile and reflect on the lack of garbage however, but I fear that this new layer of crushed stone simply covered what was there, sweeping it under the quartz carpet.  20 minutes later I’m at the trailhead, Maggie’s running around anxiously to get to the water and I’ve got to slow her down.  Sling pack, rod and reel, water, bushy dries, and we’re off.  Rain, but my hoodie will do just fine.  Hope the fine folks from that insurance company up here aren’t filming – “Sandals, Shorts, and Hoodie Guy, you’re one of us.”  Oh well. The first casts come tight on wild fish, with more chasing the one I fooled to see just what’s going on.  Release, cast, release..

For the secrets this river gave up yesterday and those it’s still keeping today, this is why I return here.  The intoxicating mix of stone, water, trees; the quiet conversation that Nature holds internally, flaring in colors both bright and dull – the deeper emerald pools holding the coldest memories of winter as a reminder.  It’s a mixed drink; swirling around in the glass, it’s inviting and the ingredients go well together.  I bellied up to the bar yesterday and ordered a drink that quenched a fading summer’s thirst.