Sandhills

The temperature was at a comfortable 39 degrees when I parked at Clear Creek. As soon as I stepped out of the truck I heard the unmistakable cries of Sandhill cranes. A late Fall treat.

The creek was down to normal levels and the water was almost crystal clear.

I tied on the fly that brought me a little smallie last week and went to work.

The Sandhills filled the skies, keeping me looking up when I should have been looking down. I lost the fly in a tree after a backcast that came close to snagging a crane.

I lost another fly when I cast right up against the far bank--which I was trying to do--and then let the fly sink into the rocks and get hopelessly hung up. But I was enjoying the company of the Sandhills.

I made three passes again but didn't get a bump. I headed back to the truck.

I wasn't the coldest I've ever been, but it felt good to crank up the heater as I pulled out and aimed for home.

I turned around a bend and there was a beautiful sunset. It was short lived, but as it faded the tiny crescent moon became visible as it set into the trees.

This was a trip in which the sky outdid the river.