Autumn in Pennsylvania is an event made for the senses. I sat along a quiet pool on upper Fishing Creek north of Benton, with my rod across my lap trying to take it all in. Not in an act of desperation or panic although I realized that all of what I saw would soon come to a frosted end of grey forests and the accompanying blanket of white. But rather, trying to soak as much of it in as possible in hopes of a moment of warmth later in the winter, when my mind was sure to drift back to this particular time in my piscatorial life. I had watched the weather reports and left for work conscious of how warm it seemed for a fall morning. A slight humidity hung in the air, which brought along with it a heavy morning fog.