Before loosing my hearing, I had the joy of listening to the waters of my beloved trout streams bubbling over the rocks and blow downs as it made its way to larger waters and eventually to the sea.

The sound as much as the cold, gentle swirl around tired legs was as therapeutic as catching the gems the waters held.

Even now, as I can see the water move, knowing the sound it is making though I cannot hear it, I’m comforted to know it’s there.  Oh I can still hear it, but the sound is coming from whats imprinted on my soul.

This is therapy, this is healing.  Norman Maclean wrote “…I am haunted by water” in “A River Runs Through It”.  I agree with the sentiment. 

As a fly fisher, I dress in drab tan and greens weathered and appropriately stained with 20 plus seasons.  Not that I want to make a fashion statement one way or the other.  Its to allow myself to be absorbed into the very elements, to be a part of that which heals.

“Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after”.
~Henry David Thoreau

I cast the cream-colored dry fly upstream to an attractive run.  As the last shafts of evening light the mirrored surface of the stream, the fly floats softly through the air and perches upon the water.

A few short retrieves and a swirl engulfs the fly. A sharp tug and then nothing…I don’t want to set the hook…it’s not what I am after today.