The sun was up, I looked over at the weather station in my camper it was 15* outside. I bundled up, Fleece pants, down jacket with hood. Come on Watson it's time for your morning walk. He bounced out from under the dinette, with that lets go dad look on his furry face. Once out we took a walk down to the Carson River. It was almost dead quiet out. The frosted over grass of the meadow crunching under my feet, Watson bounding about with glee, Clarks Nutcrackers calling. As we neared the river it was covered with a thin layer of ice save for an open spot here and there. Fly Fishing would have to wait until the sun rose higher. It was a magnificent Late fall morning in the High Country.
There is something magical about standing in a steam casting a fly with no one else around. What else would lead you to pull on thermals then fleece pants over those and wool socks for my feet , then pull on frozen waders and very cold wet wading boots, a thermal top and long sleeve shirt topped with a fleece vest, put on a fishing vest grab your fly rod and head to the river knowing that it is still below freezing out?
That first step into the river, hearing the ice crack under your boot then feeling the ice against your waders as you venture further out. The water was just at my waist level, I could feel its coldness pierce through my insulation.
Looking around at the mountains, the river valley, the the willow thickets, hearing the sound of the river as it flowed over the top of the beaver dam and watching the trout rise to eat unseen insects on the waters surface freed my mind of all the normal clutter.
It is a place of inner peace. Why else would I come here to stand in freezing water for over three hours not really caring if I caught a fish or not
I will see my friend, the river, again next year after the snow and Ice have melted, It will look different but the peace that it gives will still sing its siren song to me when we meet again....
