The Northwest is good. Once you get off I 5.
This statement is almost wholly truth.
Sometimes you don't have to get too far off.
Sit still and calm. Let the raging water wash your ears. Your mind.
Just stand there, in the river. Look down at your two unique leg eddies. Soak. In the eddy.
Rig up and toss some nymphs.
High stick it for invisible high fives from the nonexistent spectators. Save Van and D, but they don't throw fives.
Catch some feisty trout, let em splash and jump who cares if they come off. I do not own a clicker counter.
What are we doing here? Steelhead are running...but not here. Am I scared of real steel?
North into Oregon...
We go for the non anadromous varieties instead...it is a matter of logistics, not fear of the beastly and mysterious silver monsters.
Creeks gush out of one to one slopes, no apparent reason. No warning.
This is normal here. So are barefoot hikers.
Hot and cold, small fish...where are the fish?
Lets sit and feel the warmth, to our bones. It would be more satisfying if that pack of dudes wasn't here...
Into the clear water our eyes pierce.
No fish exposed, they have to hide in holes.
The trout are fish eaters here, so we're told...we have no empirical evidence.
Into the soup canyon, tighten your face.
The brutes are still here.
They fight. they run, they charge.
Orange is my color, I wear it, I cast giant flies of the same hue with an 8wt.
This is not tiring.
Wait, it's dark.
The steel abides.
Live each day completely ready to be proven wrong.
