This time of year I get nostalgic. I find myself fishing slower, taking the time to appreciate the view, the changing colors, dry fly fishing, and the last few times I can actually comfortably wet wade. I love fall but it is always a bit bittersweet.
As the dry fly season begins to wind down on our freestone streams, one by one, starting with the mountain creeks, and working it's way downhill to the big rivers, my early season thirst for a bunch of fish gives way to the urge just for one good one. One big head, coming up to eat a dry fly. One fish to remind me in January that yes, trout actually do eat dry flies.
|Little Fly, Big Bow.|
On the small streams I find myself passing up the riffles and runs that I know will give up a bunch of average fish, and instead head to the pool where I know at least one good one lives. On the rivers I walk the banks looking for that one head, that big riser. Something about fall makes me this way, every year I find myself slowing down, taking the time to carefully cast tiny spinners to big sipping trout.
|Tools of the Trade|