It was going to blow. Real hard. The weatherman said so. Fifty miles an hour. I didn't want to believe. But, I knew better. I needed a token fishing fix. Even a brief appearance would suffice. Should I, or shouldn't I? Go that is.
So I came up with this little algorithm for helping with the decision making process.
Are you dead?
Yes? You should have went fishing yesterday.
No? Go fishing today.
There. Go fishing. So I went.
There was no wind discount for leaving Livingston behind. It was as advertised when I reached the creek. Whitecaps rolled on the pond in front of the big house. When I registered for the day, Betty chimed that the ducks were having a good day. Looking out the window, I watched as they bobbed and disappeared among the swells.
I didn't dally this day as I usually do. With the fire built, I strung my rod, attached the smallest of indicators and tied a little wire worm to the tippet. I didn't bother with a dropper. Simple was the order of the day. Just get it in the water and down to the fish. A short leash would do.
The aspens swayed deeply, even their trunks bent, yielding to the gusts. Chickadees, happy go lucky as they are, tee-heed without regard. For them, every day is a good day.
Outside the hut, the smoke from the stovepipe was flattened to the ground. Stringers of snow streamed from the surrounding peaks. If it was blowing like this in the valley, the conditions up high would have been unbearable. Today, fishing was a saner choice than mountaineering.
On such days one must pick shots. The slightest lull is a casting opportunity. I got my licks in and watched as the indicator twitched on the stream surface as if in pre-seizure mode.
Was that a fish?
Hesitatingly I raised the rod . There was a brief pulse, then nothing. Yup. That was a fish. There were others. A couple even surrendered to the net.
It was a short day. I was done by one.