Home waters

Today we [the Better Half and I] took an exploratory, reconnoitering trip to take a peek at some waters we hope to fish next year. In the process, we visited a new fly shop and a book store we've wanted to check out for some time. We did a lot of driving through some pretty farm country and found a handful of places we're looking forward to seeing again. In the process, we came across a spot I used to fish 25 or 30 years ago. It hadn't changed much but lots of the country around it has, not all for the better. Nevertheless, the stream we reconnoitered today is where I learned most of my fly fishing for trout. It's as close as I come in the Midwest to having home waters.

open water in Winter is a treat to watch

Photo by J. Harrington

It felt good to get out and poke around, especially since we may end up spending the "better part(?)" of the weekend indoors, seeking, as Dylan wrote, Shelter from the Storm. If the forecast is close to accurate, the brunt of the snow will fall North and West of us but we may get more ice than is good for us. Stay tuned. In any event, come Spring it will all melt and flow into rivulets and creeks and streams and rivers and, eventually, with evaporate or return to an ocean, sea or gulf. All waters are part of the same world-wide flow. Actually, I like the way Norman Maclean expressed it, ending A River Runs Through It:

“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.
I am haunted by waters.”

May your next year be full of joy and health and, frequently, lines tight with what you pursue with love hooked on the other end.

The Song of Wandering Aengus

By William Butler Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And someone called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done,

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

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