Ever since Sand Creek disgorged it's noxious brew I have been in a state of discord with my favorite river. Nothing has felt right, nothing has felt well.
It have gone months without truly reaching the correct frame of mind. The state of mind where predatory instinct supplants mind. Where silence dominates the mental, spiritual and physical worlds. Until it doesn't. Until reality suddenly warps into the moment and the fog-horn sounds in your head and you set the hook and magically feel life at the other end.
As an extremely rational man I find it difficult to admit, but my love for fly fishing for carp seems nearly spiritual in nature. My passion originates in the moment and that that comes before.
Tomorrow I plan a preposterous lie. I will stop on the bank, make a sacrifice to the carp spirits and tell myself that the weather outlook is just fine. That the flows are perfect. That there is nothing unreasonable about catching carp in February. Maybe myself will believe it and maybe it will even be true. Either way I envision that the conversation stops there. Nothing follows. Until there is something.