On the evening September 14, 2015, I fished alone. The silence was broken only by the sound of the running water. Looking upstream, the water reflected the sunlight shining off the mountainside, above the small gorge through which the creek runs.
I was able to recite the most famous fly fishing passage:
In the . . . half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the . . . river and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.
Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. . . .
A River Runs Through It, Norman McClean