The water laps gently against my waders, the multiple currents draw my line and fly down into the depths of the boulder strewn run – eons of ever flowing currents wash across the rocks and the silver torpedoes whose sleek bodies shed each powerful press of current watch mildly interested as my hand-crafted offering washes by them in a tantalizing but languid manner that each fish knows does not belong in this place at this time. I feel the line tighten slightly as the fly and leader reach their deepest point, a small smile comes, knowing I have fished this cast well, though nothing other than the momentary weight of the water and current touches my fly and fly line on this cast or on this day. I step down through the boulders, a controlled slide and stumble to the next station. Maybe this cast?
But no. I come to wakefulness and realize that I was dreaming, and that I am still in bed and that my friend Robert Sheley is at this moment taking a lovely photograph of his angling companion in a deep river gorge in winter, a river filled with chrome. I see the picture he takes in the email he sends me – a gentle reminder – a tease – like a well-presented fly.
Forgive me for not replying to your lovely invitation to join you.
Perhaps, someday, I will be the angler in the lovely photograph Robert will take.