09 January 2016

Mythical Unnamed Creek

Winter descended last night. I'm drifting toward a summer solstice outing on some mythical unnamed creek in a familiar spot. A Rainbow, or the occasional Westslope Cutty plucked from chilly meltwater are piscatorially sublime, but seem more like that odd illusion of form that bounds off daubs of pigments than something I'd gut & fry in a camp skillet. So in my mind I'm casting a hookless woolly bugger into sparkling riffles for the pleasure of standing in rushing water.

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