I walk upstream on one of those mornings when the rising sun is casting a golden light over the high peaks. The landscape is already dressed in the warm hues of autumn, out in the west the sky is inky black there is a cold front coming in. Upstream it wont be long before the old browns are in the last sideways shuffles over the redds in the thin, clear waters, cold from winters snow. And then, with lengthening daylight, the first rains of spring will come, bringing freshness to the landscape and the celebration of new life bursting everywhere. Almost imperceptibly spring slides into the dog days of summer, wide blue skies, soaring temperatures and the atmospheric crack and spit of storms rumbling across the land like some meteorological indigestion building up for a great event – before softening once again into that magical time, the sweet of the year, autumn. These cycles are part of the greater pattern, part of what makes us think, how we tick the rhythms of a fishing life.
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