I carefully lift my left foot from it’s secure position and allow the nagging current of the river to carry it further downstream. The felt sole of my wading boot bounces along the tops of the boulders at the bottom of the unseen depths, blindly searching for the next foothold. Once firmly in place, the right leg follows same and I reestablish my balance within the rivers rhythm.
With my left hand I strip the running line in, coiling it in my fingers, and sweep the rod through a practiced, calculated motion. On the forward cast the rod arcs and the wonderful physics of inertia send a long and accurate line across the river. I enjoy the simple beauty of this effort, admiring how the bright, colourful line forms a loop and carries the fly to land in a likely spot within the braided currents where fish are known to hold. The fly settles, sinks, and begins it’s swing across the river, probing unchecked depths for the promise of another fish.
While I wait patiently for a bite to come the rhythms of this wild place envelope me. The river is an instrument of boundless composition. When coupled with the sounds of the forest, it’s creatures, and the weather that moves above a great symphony of wilderness provides an invigorating soundtrack for much needed meditation.