An ethereal layer of steam hovers an inch or so above the
static surface of the lake. The morning hours are rolling
by, slowly, like the soft clouds overhead. The legs of my
waders have long since disappeared into the murky embankment, and I can feel the mud sucking at my boots.
Everything is silent, and my reflection is my only company for miles.
I begin to wonder what the rest of them are up to. Are the
boys practicing their aim for next month’s trip? Did the
kitchen faucet start leaking again? It’s been forever since
I’ve had a moment to myself, so the vast amount of free
oxygen around me is almost overwhelming. As my mind
was wandering in between the memories of this past summer, I almost forgot what a tug on the line felt like.
Nevertheless, there it was.