The Summer hums now. Any number of fish rise in the picture show of your mind. Slow motion aerobatics. Like good jazz, the surrounding forest and stream make their own music.
So I took the day, just a few hours really. Down the trail through chest-high grass, a bit below mile post 26, to the plunge pools where the elk and deer drink. The river bottom is ancient basalt, carved and sculpted by a thousand winter onslaughts. The pools are deep aquamarine; the banks home to the caddis and mayfly.
Until darkness came, I lost count of the battles. The ride back to reality, a blend of Miles Davis and headlights against a pale blue backdrop, my mind wondered how it all may have started: The Macedonians died bits of wool tied to homemade hooks; they were not net fisherman. They were casters, like me.