You can gauge the approach of a new trout season by the number of fly fishing dreams you have. In the last two weeks I’ve had three that I can remember.
One: I’m standing on a high, rocky bluff overlooking dark-colored water. The valley is shrouded in fog and it must be late spring because the gray rocks are coated in tangles of green. I search in vain for an access point but never find a way down to the water.
Two: It’s mid summer and I’m working a stretch of skinny water in a deeply incised stream. The banks are muddy and steep and choked with glacier till, and its easy to see the rocky stream bed through gin clear waters. There are a pair of narrow, wooded islands that divide the channel and I begin working a pool that abuts the first island. I see small northerns (really?) spinning and darting in the current, but I never get a clear shot at one.
Three: Again it’s mid summer and I’m clad in shorts and a tee and throwing line across a wide pool near a bridge. The water is chocolate. A dying tree dips its half-dressed green branches into the water. There are other people here, too, young kids who are putting on a fishing clinic as I grow more frustrated with each cast.
Maybe I’ll finally a land a fish by dream number four, eh?