Last Saturday, I ventured out amidst the mists and fog in search of migrating steelhead. The weather is out of whack - we've had temperatures as high as 80 degrees in early March. I am not sure our spring steel know when to swim anymore. The river is sparsely populated with wintered trout - dark, slouching, lumbering slowly upstream as they seek out a home they never truly had. The numbers are not there. Yet. One friend I saw later that day remains hopeful, and said the unpredictability was still a good bet. The steel may still come.
As I set foot in the river, I noticed just how blown out it was, and remained. There is a nervousness that finds me before I make my first cast. A few times, I thought I would lose my footing and wash downstream. I am not a fan of that happening, so I moved a few steps back and scouted blindly for better submerged ground. I got my bearings and began casting, working river right, then river left - three steps, repeat. Spey casting is brand spanking new to me. The tempo created by the rushing water often changed my casting rhythm. Mentally I would correct my speed, and then think each step:
Rod down, then up slightly and to the side. Arc it back, then forward and down. Wait. Rod up, gently twisting inward, then forward. Swing. The lines shivers in my wake, buffeted by ever-renewing water. If done right, it will slowly center on me downstream. Now river left.
Each movement carried focus, and the world's voices fell into the background. Nothing made a noise. There is love woven into that silence. A silence that deafens the river around me.
I have found a new doorstep to my home on the water.
