02-12-2015, 11:05 AM
...who've had their hearts broken at Willow; nights in row with no fish and no sleep, yet keep on casting and dragging for the monsters.
I do it to myself. Sitting in the channel of the river, head down, eyes closed, right hand slowly reeling...slow enough to make a fake trout move water like a dying trout. I hear the lure break the surface of the water 8 feet in front of me, as if to say "I'm ready for another cast,". So I open my eyes, only to see the reflection of Las Vegas' lights, 60 miles away, shining down on the still but flowing water like a long glowing highway. The moss is cold as I pull it from the hooks of my lure. Moss is always blooming and growing, growing and blooming, then breaking away and riding the very cold current until it wraps, like ghostly black flowing rags, around sunken limbs of cottonwood and tamarisk--the same limbs that steal pieces of fishermen's hearts. The dead hands of cottonwood grab tightly onto beautifully painted basswood and molded sculptures of trout that once pulled at the eyes and instincts of those stalking shadows in the river cliffs. Stolen; and tucked quickly away in black rag moss. *clug clug clug clug....clug clug clug clug...* is all that I hear and all that I feel as I nearly sleep again in the seat of my kayak: heavy head down, tired eyes closed, right hand reeling slowly. I do it to myself. I love it.
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I do it to myself. Sitting in the channel of the river, head down, eyes closed, right hand slowly reeling...slow enough to make a fake trout move water like a dying trout. I hear the lure break the surface of the water 8 feet in front of me, as if to say "I'm ready for another cast,". So I open my eyes, only to see the reflection of Las Vegas' lights, 60 miles away, shining down on the still but flowing water like a long glowing highway. The moss is cold as I pull it from the hooks of my lure. Moss is always blooming and growing, growing and blooming, then breaking away and riding the very cold current until it wraps, like ghostly black flowing rags, around sunken limbs of cottonwood and tamarisk--the same limbs that steal pieces of fishermen's hearts. The dead hands of cottonwood grab tightly onto beautifully painted basswood and molded sculptures of trout that once pulled at the eyes and instincts of those stalking shadows in the river cliffs. Stolen; and tucked quickly away in black rag moss. *clug clug clug clug....clug clug clug clug...* is all that I hear and all that I feel as I nearly sleep again in the seat of my kayak: heavy head down, tired eyes closed, right hand reeling slowly. I do it to myself. I love it.
[signature]