High Summer
By Neil M. Travis, Montana
In late July the summer sun rises early and
retires late behind the western hills,
dawn precedes the sun by nearly an hour and
twilight lingers long after the sun has set.
This is what I call 'High Summer', the peak
of the summer season, that time period when
all of creation seems to have reached a zenith.
Clear nights allow the temperature to dip into
the upper 40's, but with the coming of the dawn
the red line in my thermometer rises rapidly. These
are the dog days of summer with rapidly rising
temperatures under the cloudless skies. By
afternoon the land bubbles with the heat,
heat waves rising from the land and distant objects
are distorted into surreal shapes by the rising
air. Set in motion the thermal winds, hot and dry,
provide little relief from the heat, but soaring
birds ride the uplifts until they are mere specks
in the azure blue sky. In the heat of the day
the only sound is the rustling of the grass, the
shrill of the cicada, and the sharp click of the
wings of the grasshopper. All of nature awaits the
coolness of the evening.
The sun hangs low over the western horizon and long
shadows begin to creep across the valley floor. In
the river bottom the coolness of evening begins to
settle, and in the remaining hour of daylight all
of the creatures that have been enduring the heat
of the day begin to emerge from their places of refuge.
Whitetail deer, with spotted fawns trotting at their
heels, emerge from the shadows to feed. It has been a
good year for deer, and each doe has a matching set
of twins. The fawns run and jump, and even the does
occasionally are caught up in the joy of being alive,
joining their youngsters as they chase and leap about
in the long grass. A young buck joins the does and
fawns sporting a small set of velvet-covered antlers.
At the edge of the cottonwoods a considerably larger
buck, with antlers extending well beyond his ears,
browses on the lush grass, but does not join the
others in the open field.
The riparian area is lush and green. The grass is
waist high with ripening seed heads turning slightly
golden. Almost absentmindly I pull a stalk of timothy,
its seed head like a miniature cattail head, and stick
it in my mouth, a tribute to my childhood on the farm.
Chewing on the stem I walk along the stream soaking in
the cool of the evening.
Along the banks thick stands of large yellow coneflowers
stand out in vivid contrast to the deep green of the
surrounding foliage. Golden rod, a certain reminder
that fall is near, is beginning to blossom under the
stream side willows.
In the cool of the evening all of nature seems to be
attempting to catch up on all the lost hours of the
day when temperatures were too hot to carry on normal
activities. Swallows have fledged their young and the
evening air is filled with the twittering of young
birds learning to use their wings. Young red-winged
blackbirds cling to willow branches, yellow warblers
dart through the foliage feeding on caterpillars, leaf
hoppers, and other insects. Cedar waxwings dart out
over the stream fly catching. There are kingbirds on
the fence wires, nighthawks patrolling over the tree
tops, song sparrows still singing along the stream,
wrens chattering, crows cawing, and the first flocks
of grackles and starlings streaming overhead. A great
blue heron flaps silently upstream, and upon seeing me
uttered a startled squawk and veers off his chosen
course. Squawking and grumbling he flaps away, and I
think that I am fortunate that I do not understand
what comments he is making.
As the sun slips behind the western horizon the mountain
peaks begin to glow red. Large cumulus clouds piled up
along the southern end of the valley begin to suffuse
with shades of mauve and rose red colors making a
constantly shifting panorama as the sun slides farther
below the horizon. The towering white cloud tops are
almost luminescent against the darkening sky. The gusty
wind that had been blowing turns to a gentle breeze,
and then dies completely with the closing of the day.
I take several pictures with my camera, but I know that
they will fail to fully capture the beauty of this setting.
All of this beauty is mirrored in the surface of the
stream, and now in the gathering dusk a few caddis
flies begin to dance and skate over the surface.
Occasionally a mayfly drifts past, and swarms of
midges suddenly appear to join the caddis flies
skating on the mirrored surface of the stream. As
if on cue a trout eases its nose through the surface
film, sipping in a dancing midge, and creating a tiny
dimple to mar the perfect reflection. Slowly at first,
then with increasing rapidity other trout join in the
leisurely feeding.
The mirrored surface is a moving feast with a myriad
of insects held fast in its tenacious film, and a
small net held in its flow is quickly covered with
a potpourri of tiny ants, beetles, flies, midges,
and any number of other types of insects. Under the
cover of twilight, trout that have spent the day
buried in the undulating waterweeds emerge to take
up feeding stations in the channels between the weed
beds, and leisurely feed on the passing feast.
With rod in hand I ease my way into the stream,
careful to avoid making a disturbance that would
announce my presence, and send the feeding trout
scurrying back into the weeds. Once in place I
drop a tiny fly slightly upstream from the largest
nose within casting range, and wait with anticipation
as my offering floats over his position. He rises
to a natural before my offering arrives, and I
allow it to float passed his position before I
lift it gently, and offer it again. Once again he
rises early, and then again. Finally, on the fourth
drift he takes my fly, and moments later slides over
the rim of my net, a fine brown trout with my tiny
fly securely in the corner of his toothy jaw. Forceps
allow me to avoid those needle sharp teeth as I remove
the tiny barbless fly from the gristle in the corner
of his jaw. I gently hold him by the tail until he
regains his balance, and with a flick he quickly
scoots away.
There are other trout rising to bits of minutiae,
but my attention is caught and held by the beauty
of the evening. The mountains, now glowing with
even a greater intensity, are mirrored in the
perfect reflection of the stream. In the light
reflected from the billowing white clouds all
of the colors are magnified, and all is held
captive in the reflection of the stream. Overhead,
nighthawks swoop with mouths agape gathering in
the insect feast, swallows dance with grace
befitting a ballerina, and all of nature is in
quiet reverie beneath the shifting colors of the
setting sun.
I settle back on the bank to blend, and become
one with the scene. The trout continue to rise
until it is too dark for me to see, and a sliver
of a moon hangs, as if by the slenderest of thread,
in the afterglow of the setting sun. Day is spent,
and bats appear to replace the creatures of the day.
A great blue heron, perhaps the one I startled
earlier passes overhead, so close that I can hear
the creak of the pinion feathers in his wings.
Good fishing, I think as he passes.
High summer, too short, too soon gone, but sweet
and special while it lingers. ~ Neil M. Travis, Montana/Arizona
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