August colds lack the trappings of their wintertime cousins, luring a fellow out of bed prematurely so he can wheeze and wilt under summer’s heat.

Two weeks without wheels and I was desperate enough to risk the mile and a half to the body shop to claim my chariot. Nearly expiring in the process, another 24 hours alternating shots of Nyquil and orange juice emboldened me to attempt the local watershed, knowing it was still recovering from last year’s dewatering, and probably felt as healthy as I did.

The healing properties of brown water are well documented, whatever remained of the cold bug gobbled up by legions of voracious Ecoli, and like Popeye making me stronger with continued exposure …

… and invulnerable should I slip and take a header.

Given the continued high water the last thing expected was to see the bones of the Old Girl exposed.

The flow is only a third of the old normal, which is consistent with the acres of green tomatoes still in the field. The draw on the creek has extended into August as the harvest has been delayed by the wet weather of Spring.

There’s ample fry evident in the “frog water” – mostly Pikeminnow, but I did find largemouth spawn in the deeper water, and fingerlings up to 3” in size.

Most of my beloved creek was ankle deep however.

At least one pair of beaver survived the Purge, moot evidence of why their reintroduction into the UK is a hotly debated topic. Terraforming being part of their nature, and while both fish and fishermen are appreciative of new cover, the land owner is often less so.

I rested on the bank watched for signs of fish life, but all the commotion was the result of fingerlings growing fat on tiny Trico spinners.

At the Siphon Pool, I managed to wake something of the brood stock, lean and sinewy – a Fedayeen who’d survived on a handful of dried dates all winter to plant a Stinger in the path of a Soviet Hind, or so he thought. A holdover from past seasons that had escaped suffocation, the both of us surprised and winded by the violence of the ensuing tussle.

Perhaps through the miracle of a rare shot, you can glimpse them as I do, noble in their own right, burnished by early morning light and worth every droplet of sweat necessary.

Puts a lightness in a Man’s step, sorely needed when faced with the slow regeneration of a dead creek, and a couple miles of burning streambed cobble between him and his beloved Nyquil tit.

Test: Sacramento Pikeminnow, fly fishing for coarse fish, brownlining, Nyquil, largemouth bass, august cold