Going to visit my love
I pack my fly fishing gear and pole. Just in case. I have heard lots of whispering about some big browns there in early spring and fall, but I’ve never had the chance to fish it. Once on the ground there I stop at the flower shop and I ask about the lake. “ Ufda, I sometimes have a hard time catching fish out of that lake”. and from the back of the shop “ I wouldn’t take anyone there”.
I picked up on the fact that no one said there weren’t fish or that they were small. I left the flower shop with three long stemmed red roses wrapped with a bow and head for the lake.
It was late winter snowing and about 15 degrees. Blue-winged olives were beginning to hatch and I caught a few trout. On my last cast, a fish hammered my fly as it swung at the end of the drift. A decent brown perhaps 12 inches.
As I stowed my gear and headed to see my love I wondered why we hadn’t been there. She had wanted to go and would have loved it. It was a nice long shallow bank. She wouldn’t have had to strain herself at the end, and could have fished from the bank. Why couldn’t I have found the time to take her? Or found the few extra bucks in gas money while driving out to visit her parents?
I pull up to her place and put my truck in drive. I reach for her roses while I push the door open. I take the slow walk up to her and I notice the tears falling on my sweater. I place her roses down on the snow and I trace my hand over her name itched in stone. How did you get here? I leave her with her roses and walk back down to the truck and start the 8 hour drive to my empty house.