November 4, 2009 - Solitude

Standing on the bank of the Henry’s Fork of the Snake River, I observed a place remembered. We had all been there a few months earlier in midsummer. Everything was green and alive at that time, and so was my soul. Now things were different, the world was full of yellows, reds, and browns; autumn was in full swing and ready to give way to winter at any moment. There was a place on the bank of the river that had looked promising. I fish alone due to prefernce, but also due to the fact that nobody will go fly fishing with me anymore. I tied a number four sculpin to the end of my line, hoping to catch the attention of the biggest trout in the river. After a while the sculpin yielded no results so I tied a dry fly on for memories sake. The wishing and whirring sound that is made when the line passes back and forth in the air above my head always gives my soul peace and therapy. Although no fish were interested in taking a bite on my number sixteen blue wing olive, I was happy for a moment. The weather was around seventy degrees, which was amazing and almost unheard of for a November in Idaho. The songs of the summer are gone, and the songs of that summer may be gone forever. The only song I heard as I stood on the bank without a trout was that of the soft autumn breeze…