I will relish in the first 70 degree days of late spring as the snowmelt passes. I look forward to the aching legs and weathered skin of summer.

I had been watching a high-pressure break for a week, pouring over maps and predictions, hoping it wouldn’t collapse like a Peep in a vise when it reached land.

No one is going to hold a gun to your head and say, “Steward… or else!”

I sat on a point near Lopez that jutted into the Ocean and watched the sun retreat, letting go colors to the sky.

The only other resident I saw was the otter who lives in a crack in the cliff face on the opposite bank. A big male, he grows fat on the Canyon's abundant crayfish.

The post-pile lava spires rose hundreds of feet above his head. A small group of mule deer grazed in the meadow near the horses. The geese had moved to the opposite bank near the spring.

The water is lower, the fish a bit hungrier, and the pace more suitable to a five-weight and a box of caddis and stimulators.