I can recall a late summer evening when the air was stilled
And the water mirrored the gentle Halo of the western sky.
Hushed and muted were the distant sounds,
And as I gazed about, a magic, an enchantment,
Caught me up in a moment of time
When all was one, and I was of it.
The gentle swish, swish, of the flyrod fashioned
Fluid rhythms through the sky
And through my meditative soul.
The cast was released, the line unfurled gracefully
And the small streamer caused barely a dimple
In the fabric that was both sky and water.
Like a bubble slowly rising to the surface,
A feeling of contentment welled up within me,
A blissful exultation for life, creation and God.
Whether wading a river, or on a lake in a boat,
I always feel a certain affinity
For the environment around me,
But never more so than when I am fishing a flyrod.
In an esoteric manner, the act of casting
Is conducive to perception.
To feel the rod flex, to see the grace of the flyline
Continually unfold before me, to deliver the fly
Unerringly to the target with a perfect upstream mend,
These arouse sentimentality and sensitivity within.
Or perhaps it is the tactile nature of the thing -
A direct connection via the fingertips to the fish.
Or is it the sixth sense that is honed to sharpness,
While manipulating a feathery fraud through a fish's lair.
I am not sure.
But I do know that it means
So much more than just fishing to me.
~ RL
