“Sunblood” – Shad and Besnard Lakes

Two weeks early?  Two weeks late?

A damp sleeping bag in the back of a truck. A hard frost blankets the inside of the truck canopy. The outside the same. A tailgate seat, under a blue tarp. Frozen boots and stiff waders. Fingerless wool gloves shovel instant oatmeal into a face staring out at the water. Occasionally peering upwards toward the couple hundred foot ceiling. Searching for the clues to the future in the endless grey sky.

Grey skies and cold rain. Wind. Fog. Intermittent snow. Big flakes floating to the ground and disappearing. The pocket water devoid of life. Fish stacked in the deeper pools. Hunkered down deep, coming up only for the occasional blue winged olive. Eyes strained, scanning the water for #20 flies.

Brief windows of golden sunshine. Blue skies. Perfect light. Yellow aspens. The shedding of layers. And fish willing to take a gamble on the big meal floating by.  Shaken out of their slumber by rising water temperatures.  It all feels just as it should.

And just as quickly the world goes back to grey and wind and rain.  Back to uncooperative fish and small flies.  Until the next brief respite and the dance of layer shedding begins anew. Back and forth. A day without rhythm.

The march back to camp. Numb toes. Sore back. Chapped lips. The collection of damp wood. The blowing of coals until the small sticks catch. A warm meal. A cold beer. Starry skies overhead. Blazing fire. Frozen backside and hellfire knees. Until eyes get heavy. Leaving the lingering warmth of the fire for the immediate chill of the sleeping bag. Wondering if tomorrow will bring gold or grey.

But each new day brings the same as the previous.

Two weeks early? Two weeks late?

Doesn’t matter.

Not in the least.