Al Kyte's Life Take-Aways

 
The long call of a train whistle from the far hill carries to our cabin   welcoming the dawn, best alarm clock ever. The smell of bacon frying draws me out from under warm blankets                a young teen throwing on the clothing of a new day

By mid-morning I’m on the move                seventy degrees, slight breeze                   lunch packed, fly rod in hand                    striding forward into the mountain’s warm greeting

Now picking my way, scrambling ever downward into the canyon  listening as I move, faintly hearing, now louder            the alluring sound of running water                 trying to picture the stream soon to be seen

Parting the final branches, there a clear pool             every stream-bottom rock in perfect focus               and no footprints to be seen                      I delight in a feeling of discovery as I make ready to fish

Wading in icy, bone-chilling water                  line tangles and tree-caught flies                  alder branches blocking the way                 Such obstacles only feed my resolve

Under low limbs and leaves, walking on knees             my world grown small                       rod tip poked through grabby branches             searching out hidden trout

Saucy little ouzel rock-hopping and dipping           pretending not to notice my presence                 that bird leading me upstream                    or perhaps a double-agent warning the fish? 

Emerging from the cage of branches into an open sky          my rod’s willowy feel                                                          the line smoothly unrolling overhead                                                  I’m mesmerized by the fly’s fluttery, bouncy riffle-dance

A sudden, splashy, surface eruption—a silvery blur                                            a strong downward pull, then my fly air-mailed back to me                                       What trick of that old fish had dislodged my hook?                                          Some questions settle there beyond my answers

Soon climbing cascading falls                                                    rock over slippery rock                                                       spray drenching face and body but not touching my soul                                        my exertion an embrace of this vibrant place

A view through boulders and small pines to a distant peak, a place to linger                                  I grab my lunch and a stream-side seat                                               How did that scene come into being, those rocks find this place?                                 Speculation cut short, there’s still more water to see

In the stream, bent low                                                      hands cupped scooping up snow-melt nectar                                           savoring the taste of a free-flowing moment                                            youthful assurance that such moments will always be there

Now time to start back but much too soon                                             drawn by what lies around that next bend                                               the big-fish pool of my dreams?  Got to see for myself                                          I’ll be playing catch-up racing the clock home—again

Years later, by a fire no different than then                                             reflecting on train tracks now overgrown dirt roads                                           and creek water no longer to drink                                                                I warm myself in the memories, those wonderful, care-free days as a boy.