Mid May and I have missed the bloom of the bluettes along the banks of my favorite trout streams.  Too soon the hoard of bait chucking meat hunters will trample them with reckless abandon.

I know in certain waters this practice is necessary.  I also trust that not all trout will end up in the skillet.  There will be precious few that get schooled early enough to seek the darker, deeper waters and wait for the close of the season.

Some may even breed to produce an off spring that will be born more weary than its parents who were raised in a cement tank.

I miss my old haunts, that’s no secret.  The older I get, the more time I spend looking, remembering.  I spend less time now casting and catching.  I visit now with the old ghosts of a better time, a better day when a better me rejoiced at the comradery and triumph in fellow brothers of the art successfully fooling a native or wild trout to their net.

However, the autumn will come again soon and with it the bloom of the late season bluette.  And with the bloom comes the new season and new memories with old friends, at least that is how it plays out in my mind.

“Along our trout streams in the highlands,

The last of the evening light glows.

I’ll pour a shot to you my brothers,

raise it up and say cheerio”!