Confessions of a Stream Angler

The routine hadn't changed much in the last 30 years or so. A typical Saturday morning would find Frank Malone rising well before sunrise. Today would be no different.
As he sat on the edge of his bed wiping the sleep from his eyes, Frank pondered his fishing opportunities, wondering where this day might lead him.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee now filled the lonely house, and Frank wondered how he would go about packing everything up and preserving the memories of a lifetime that echoed inside the walls of this old place. The wind rattling the branches of the old oak tree outside his office window had Frank thinking that the fly rod would probably stay home today in favor of his trusty old spinning gear and the recent rains would probably make wading more difficult than it was worth.
For the first time in his adult life, Frank was having second thoughts about going fishing at all, but the workload facing him here seemed daunting, to say the least.
Mary always seemed to have a place for everything, and looking around at this point, Frank suddenly realized that he really had no clue where anything was. He couldn't help but chuckle at the thought, and went about his usual routine of gathering up some essentials for the day.

With his thermos of coffee in hand, he headed out to the barn to check on the goats to make sure they hadn't busted out of their pens, as they had recently found a liking to doing. Actually, the neighbors would have called if there had been another episode during the night such as occurred twice this week already.
Animals just seem to have that sixth sense in knowing that something has changed drastically in their surroundings, and these creatures definitely sense that something is not the same.

As darkness still held its grip on the morning, the lights from Frank's truck glanced briefly off the barn and startled the chickens out of their stupor, bringing a smile to his face as he realized that some things never change.
Fumbling to find his cigars and dial up a weather forecast on the radio, Frank came to the realization that he didn't even know where he was going to end up fishing today.
He'd done this so many times, for so many years, yet on this day he seemed to have a hard time getting his thoughts together.

With a slight chance of rain in the forecast and a low pressure system, it would more than likely be a good bite anywhere he ended up, Frank figured.

The light of a fresh morning was just beginning to peek over the horizon as Frank navigated the thick fog and back roads to take his customary place among the tall pines and crisp mountain air.
Taking advantage of the seemingly perfect conditions on this day, he wasted no time in getting set up and was at stream's edge just in time to witness a bald eagle take flight from it's roost, a marvel he had probably taken for granted too many times.
Everything seemed just a little more magical today, and Frank disrupted his usual routine at this point to slowly set his gear down and take it all in with a deep breath.

The stream was running a little quicker than usual, but "The Rock" could still be seen sticking out of the water, which generally meant it was safe to wade.
With his rod in hand, wading staff and a small box of flies, Frank was on his way.
Realizing he had a challenge ahead of him with the winds swirling through the canyon, Frank decided to make it easier on himself and tuck in behind the towering bluff and work the "hidden cove", as a few locals liked to refer to it. Many a trout had come from this pool under just such conditions, and Frank was able to repeat his time honored tactics on this particular day to land and release at least a dozen decent rainbows.
As he prepared to pack it in and call it a morning, Frank noticed a familiar silouhette off in the distance. The unmistakable outline could be none other than his trusty old friend.

Harold Westinghouse was a brooding figure even from a distance, standing well over six feet tall, and sporting a grey beard of "biblical proportions".
"Hey Westinghouse!" Frank yelled as he made his way back to the streambank. "You wearin' your lucky shirt today? Your not gonna need it, the fish are hitting anything that gets near 'em!" Frank laughed. Sharing their spots was never an issue between these two, as they grew up together on this land and helped lead the way in the preservation of this watershed through extensive conservation efforts.
As Frank got closer to his friend, the fog seemed to lift in an almost surreal fashion and he found himself standing midstream staring at a newly fallen tree that must have been knocked down in the recent storm.

It was at this moment that Frank suddenly realized his whole world had drastically taken a turn in the last six months with the loss of Mary, preceded three months earlier by the loss of his best friend.
Now it seemed as though he was losing his mind, as he stood there staring for what seemed like an eternity, with scattered memories flooding in and consuming his thoughts, trying to get a grip on what he was going to do from here with his life.
Thoughts of packing away those boxes entered the equation once again, and it was time.

The last year of Frank Malone's life was spent travelling to all the places he always refused to visit because he had the very best in his backyard and couldn't bear the thought of ever turning his back on something so dear to him.
Some say he died of a broken heart and only returned to be scattered into the wind that he was always trying to escape from while out in the water. Those that never got to know him will wish they had upon hearing of his life-long passion for this great land. One only needs to look toward the sky and hope for a glimpse of a bald eagle spreading it's wings as it glides off into the pines, and they will come to know that Frank still watches over this remarkable place, and all is well in this little corner of the great outdoors.

The End
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