Great Expectations

After several days of waking to teens and highs below freezing, I could tell early on it would be well into the forties, felt almost balmy. The snaking back road drive feels completely different in December than in spring or summer. The wall of green casting shadows on the road has given way to bony ragged scarecrows pointing knuckley fingers in every direction. Grey is the sky, horizon and landscape. I'm lost in thought, happy thoughts, contented thoughts, an oddity for me this time of year. Powerful is boyhood, especially at 46. Sitting on the bumper I hear Christmas carols whistled enthusiastically as I pull

on my waders. "What is this Mr. Scrooge, why the holiday cheer?"

The stream is lined in Christmas green by mossy rocks and those marvelously resilient southern mountain mainstays, laurel and rhododendron. Ice covers the backwaters and reveals the many springs and seeps feeding the creek. Cold fingers pull the fly line through the guides, feeling their way as I'm loath to take my eyes off the winter wonderland. Dim light, numb fingers and reflective-less fluorocarbon make attaching twinkling tiny nymphs something less than a labor of love. Finally a gentle roll cast has the floating ornament bobbing in the slow current. Eventually it's in exactly the right spot and the

indicator pauses slightly, creating a nano break in the current. A raise of the rod creates a bend and the ever memorable frantic tug-tug and flash of silver. I still hear the same Christmas medley whistling around the stream as I lay my rod down and kneel on the moss admiring the trout. Hundreds of dark black spots on a green background yield to silver with a crimson streak, and that little shiny nymph poking out of his top lip.

The rocks are slick, the ice too thin to walk on, but thick enough to hide the depths and contour below them. The scarecrows reach out and grab my little shiny ornaments with regularity. There are lots of fish in the run below and above the picnic table. Mostly at the back of pools and holding together in pods, look mostly like rainbows, don't see many brooks or browns. The little boy wants to just stay there until I catch every one, but I push on to scout more water. A few large ones are right there under the tree on the far bank of "slick rock". I love that hold. It's almost impossible to cast to and in

the summer I've seen big splashy rises, but don't remember ever catching one there on a dry. Finally I push up to Christian's hole and find it barren and iced all but a narrow channel in the middle where a little current still moves through.

The shadows have gotten long. For all the scheming and casting I've only landed one trout. But the melodies still whistle from my lips as I contemplate the ensuing holiday and it's vacation days- trout days. Any 46 year old little boy will tell you, it's hard to wait for Christmas, but the expectation is the thing.

Giving Thanks

The day before Thanksgiving, I set out early. Intent on fishing the whole dharvest section of Wilson, with one caveat, blowing by the deep runs where swinging nymphs and wagging streamers are the ticket. Sticking strictly to the shallower runs where a trout may well rise to a well placed wolf or caddis. The first flat run yielded a little rainbow on a yellow humpy as I recall. The air was crisp early, but held the promise of 50 degrees, and I was excited to try out some new gear, as any true gear whore would be. The new jacket I sported, at the absolute insistents of Pablo (I think he got a commission or something) was noticeably unnoticed due to it's unhindering lightness- but perfectly warm at 35 degrees, the marvels of technology.

The day progressed nicely as skipping the deep pools had me covering more water, casting more and switching flies less. I sat on a sandy bank to nibble on a cliff bar and swig back some mtn dew. Reclining with my hands behind my head, the sun shined on my face, a splashy little rise was audible above the gurgle of the stream. My heart had carried a spirit of gratitude all morning and in that instant, I could feel ma nature herself whisper, "You are welcome."

As the late afternoon shadows darkened the water, I stood at an old mill site where the remnants of a hundred year old dam towered on either side of the stream. A fat brookie shot out of the depths and inhaled the fly swirling at the head of the of the pool. I laughed out loud and told the trout how much I appreciated his native aggressiveness, and the sheer reckless abandon it took to rise to that fly from such depths. Enjoying the play of the fish and basking in the final moments of the day, I did not notice a young piscator who had come to the bottom of the pool on the bank opposite me. Undoubtedly he'd heard my silly dialogue with Mr. Brookie, and may well have rolled his eyes and this goofy old man, talking to a trout. But I was undaunted. As the trout shot back into the darkness, I clipped the fly from the line and blew on it. Turning to the young piscator, I grinned broadly, "It's all yours my friend." I said, sweeping my hand up stream and across the wooded hillside before us. "Oh, thank you" he replied. "You are welcome..... You are welcome."