Happy Solstice, everyone.
On the day after the shortest day, the first day of the return of the light, I make one more trip to Clear Creek. This is where I want to spend my first extra minutes of daylight. I get on the bridge and my eyes wander upstream again.
There is plenty of green if you get on the north side of things.
I follow the deer trail between the ridge and the stream.
I come to the stone viaduct again. The ridge looks like a ridge, and it's too high to see any signs of a road or rail bed, so the echoing tunnel beneath it exists in a state of mystery. I walk over to it. It's long and holds four feet of water. It reminds me of a baptismal font, a symbol of new beginnings.
I reach the farthest point upstream that I have been so far, turn and begin to fish my way back.
I find a nice run with a deep pool at the end. I swing a wet fly and drift a nymph deep, but catch only leaves. The whole time I'm imagining this spot in high summer.
I leave my tracks beside those of my fellow fishers.
Down in a place like any other I get a tick on the wet fly and bring in a chub. I pull out the flask and toast it like it was a buck steelie.
And then another. This one ends up having the distinction of being the last fish of 2017. Cheers.
I fish on down past the log jam then reel in and cut up through the woods to the bridge, and the last fishing trip of the year comes to an end.
Happy Holidays, everyone.
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