Anticipation

C liff-climbing conifers stir in the brisk dawn breezes that swoop the gorge, rustling my jacket, nipping my cheeks. Across the casual rapids, near the stony shore, rainbows surface in slack water, hungrily gulping morning hatch.

A familiar warmth comforts my palm, as my fingers wrap natural cork. With index finger raised, I gauge line tension, then with learned precision, I bring the willow’d shaft high above my shoulder, the rod flexing expectantly. In a silvery spray, wetted line is stripped from the stream in front of me, where I’d floated it moments before. Silently, the slender thread peels from the current’s surface, leaving a razor crease, disappearing quickly as it comes toward me. With a knowing draw of my wrist, the line arcs backwards, increasing the pressure on my fingertip, bringing the rod to 2 PM, momentum loading for the cast. Then a fluid, unhurried, forward bend of my elbow, and flick of my wrist, rolls the arched line ahead, accelerating with tension.

Finally, with a careful pluck of my finger, like on the string of a guitar, the eager line is released. The golden-barbed feather at line’s end, sails silently into the squinting summer sun, as the glass-green fiber rolls out ahead, over azure ripples, the singing strand painting an S in the cloudless sky. Quick, smooth, and quiet, the line is re-wed to stream, the feathered morsel at the tip offered seductively, coaxing a ready trout to rise — and strike. In this moment, mind focused, breath steady, senses heightened, I pause expectantly, and reflect — magnificence!