There are always warning signs that we choose to ignore, in part due to boundless enthusiasm, in part raw courage. Non fisher types cannot understand our premonitions, as it’s counter to everything they’ve experienced.

We wake up to a traditional western dawn and appreciate the riot of colors and hue, but it starts that unsettling little voice that whispers, “fishless” …

It’s not that we can’t appreciate beauty, it’s only that we’ve been here so many times – knowing that if everything falls into place, the fish will be absent.

I’d rather wake up in a torrential downpour, or forget my reel, needing something bad at trip’s start to build the karma for something good to happen later.

I peered over the railing of the bridge and the little voice started clamoring – in the absence of all the crap from the horse stable, the water was gin clear and the fish were visible.

Too good to be true, often is just that – and I’m attempting to temper my enthusiasm with unwelcome reality.

I tossed everything I had, every oddball experimental and all the proven patterns; weighted, unweighted, dead drift, and stripped, and there was naught to show for my industry.

It was yet another reminder of the perverse nature of fishing, dealing me all aces up until the other fellow caught his flush.

The fish weren’t feeding and likely were on high alert. Without the protective blanket of horse crap from the stable upstream, they weren’t interested in anything thrown their way.

Tomorrow I’ll start by launching my old water heater over the bridge, flies are for sissies.