It’s pale morning duns, little yellow sallies and clouds of caddis flies at last light.
It’s osprey nests full of chicks with parents scanning the river below for meals to quiet the open mouths.
It’s repeating the procedure the very next day.
Summer fishing is dozens of common mergansers beating your favorite fishing hole to a froth as they scoot along the river, using their wings as oars rather than, well, wings.
It’s mosquitoes forming a cloud around your head as the day’s heat fades away. It’s the high-pitched hum you can hear from their brethren buzzing through the cooling air.
It’s beavers gliding through sloughs, their V-shaped wakes the only movement in the glassy water.
Thwack! It’s a beaver spotting a lone fisherman on the bank and doing his best to impress him with a thundering smack of the tail.
It’s a herd of cows on the river bank at a salt lick. No wait, that one’s a bull and he’s getting to his feet.
It’s evasive action when the situation demands.
Summer fishing is finding a rising trout, watching first the nose, then the dorsal fin break the surface as it languidly sips a fly. It’s figuring out the best angle of approach, then executing a stealthy stalk.
It’s discerning what the fish is eating and what you have in your flybox that most resembles the natural.
It’s lifting the fly off the water, throwing the line and fly behind you, pausing, then delivering the fly; Norman Maclean’s four-count rhythm that is my metronome of summer.
It’s presenting that fly to the fish in such a way that it looks like the real thing.
It’s searching through the box for the next fly pattern and repeating as needed.
It’s squinting through the setting sunlight, watching the fly as it approaches the fish. It’s settling your nerves as the fish pokes its head through the surface, inhaling your fly. It’s resisting the urge to rear back with the fly rod, instead applying a firm, even set.
It’s listening to the zing of the reel as the fish makes its initial run. It’s the exhilaration you feel in your soul when the fish leaps, then slips back into the river to make another screeching run.
It’s the satisfaction of cradling that power in your hand as you remove the hook, revive the fish and watch it lazily swim away.
Summer fishing is walking back to the car in the moonlight, wishing the day needn’t end, but knowing in your heart the same scenes will play out tomorrow.
It’s taking one last look out over the river and soaking in the sights, sounds and smells of summer.
It’s looking forward to fall fishing.
Sports editor Bob Meseroll can be reached at 523-5265 or at sportsdesk@missoulian.com. His fishing column appears in Thursday’s Outdoors section.
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