It is early morning, dark, absent the warming touch of sunrise, yet I am filled with anticipation and excitement. Keen to nature's awakening, it fills my soul as I drive through Big Cottonwood Canyon.
Silver Lake lays silent, shadow cast and surrounded by an army of snow caped peaks. Eking out of the lake-giant, a small stream glides in whimsy; hardly a prelude to the mighty current it feeds close by. Its deliberate current is steady, though barely moving as to deceive me. I slide into the water, carefully and not to disturb, too much, the soft bed of soil and mud beneath my feet. Even still, delicate plums of brown smoking soil envelope me and rise before being carried away. Now, pressing against me, I can feel the cool stream, refreshing and clean.
Sunlight begins to overcome the mountains and breaks through the trees, blinking in the morning breeze. It reflects across the mirrored surface and warms me. Dark blackened-brown reeds lay succumbed by winter snow packs, eager to again stand erect when the season warms. Quiet, still... the air reflects my rhythm as I lay my fly onto the surface, until, something strikes it with deadly precision, from the depths below.
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