“It is for man the seasons and all their fruits exist. The winter was made to concentrate and harden and mature the kernel of his brain, to give tone and firmness and consistency to his thought. Then is the great harvest of the year, the harvest of thought. All previous harvests, are stubble to this, mere fodder, and green crop. Now we burn with a purer flame like the stars; our oil is winter-strained. We are islanded in Atlantic and Pacific and Indian Oceans of thought, Bermudas, or Friendly or Spice Islands.”
Thoreau may have been surrounded by snow and early darkness, lacked a television, and at times nursed a persistent cough. I can appreciate all that right now. But he didn’t have any fine graphite fly rods and yet still alluded to persistent thoughts of tropical climes.
MG signing off (because he does have fine graphite fly rods, and he is also thinking about the tropics)