It is during the dark, cold days of January that the flashbacks begin to intensify.
I’ll be minding my own damned business, typically grinding away at some task on the computer, when out of the blue there will be a flash of a nice little cutthroat rising to a little stimulator bobbing right at the head of the pool. I’m ankle deep in a riffle on the far upper Gallatin. The sky is blue, my cast was perfect, the bankside meadow is full of flowers and I’m tanned, skinny (proof of the depth of the thought disorder involved) and unhurried.
The beer, perfectly sunken two pools down, is ice cold.
Or I’ll be stuck in traffic when the on my next glance up I’m suddenly sitting in the the rower’s seat of the cataraft on the Missouri; it’s late in the day and the caddis are just really getting rolling. We’re anchored out at the head of a sweet, long riffle; fish, nice Missouri river fatties, are rising everywhere.
Sometimes with just a turn to look out the office window I find myself behind the wheel of my old truck, driving through some of backcountry northwestern Wyoming (above) or south of Yellowstone, headed into the Parkway en route to the Snake. The fuel tank is full, there’s not a car in sight and there’s no cell service. It’s perfect….
The cold slap of January’s reality eventually strikes, though there’s hope.
Six months from today it’ll be high summer.
