The sun still rides high above the Front Range.
As I walk up the road I check my line. The tippet looks strained right at the knot I just tied. I bite down on each side of the blood while continuing the stroll, and then proceed with four wraps on either side of the loop around my middle finger.
Stop momentarily, spit, and pull tight. Much better.
Turning the corner, there’s a familiar face. We exchange glances, then greetings. The story is nobody’s been around here very much. Relief washes over me.
The water is low and clear of weeds. A stiff breeze is blowing in the face, slightly from the right. Damn.
Line falls from reel to ground, and then a few elbow tests are done. I let the little crawdad-colored, bullet-headed, curly-tailed bugger rip. It carries sixty or so feet, and left.
Self-reassurance: That’s a good spot.
One strip, two strips, three strips…four.
There were plenty…
…of jackrabbits spotted on the way back to the truck.
MG signing off (comfortable with the condition)