First of May.

You show up often enough and locals begin recognizing your car, an old dude hauling a horse trailer asking if you’d caught enough for supper.

I built a new rod during the pandemic, a cheap green fiberglass blank, hardware salvaged from other broken sticks.  COVID changed a lot, or maybe many had the same idea, because it was hell finding rod wrapping thread in the local shop or the mail-order houses.  The guides will probably be redone someday; for now, sewing thread will have to do. 

It’s eighty degrees and oppressively muggy, cool spring mornings giving away to midwestern summer.  The fish pass on anything dead-drifted, they want to chase down soft hackles and pounce on caddis emergers and I’m happy to oblige.  The creek’s lower than months pass, and footprints on the gravel bar tell me school’s out for the year. 

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