We sat patiently on the side of the road for an extended period of time, listening to some tunes and contemplating the days strategy. We had at least a half hour before we even considered stepping into our waders and preparing our rods. We just waited. By the time you could tie a knot without a headlamp, we were on the trail, intent on reaching a piece of water we wanted to fish. We bypassed several famous pools, some great pocket water we knew and loved, and finally crossed the river to a favorite run. Along the way, we didn't see a single soul or another car. Surprised, we even joked that people forgot about changing the clocks. After awhile, I even thought that they closed this section of river. It was too good to be true. So good, that we took turns. I gave Adam the entire run and he promptly obliged by hooking a small male on a black and purple contraption. Meanwhile, the water on the rod worked its way silently into the smallest of imperfections and began freezing. The bend in the rod, courtesy of a feisty steelhead was all it took for the tip to break in half, exactly at the point we deliberated on a few hours earlier. Our perfect morning suddenly began fading as a broken rod gave way to a series of misfortunes that left us shaking our heads. Missed fish were only the beginning. All the water we bypassed began filling up faster than Salmon season and the fishing was hot. Before we could partake in some fun, the sun was high in the sky, and the fishing cooled down. We were left to dwell on a shipping bill and a few weeks without any tributary swinging.
We need the break.