We ran north this weekend in a mad dash to catch the last of the autumn light and perhaps a fish or two before the snow begins to fall and the landscape shifts to winter. With borrowed waders and newly minted skills, we walked into the east outlet of the Kennebec River and tuned into the rhythm of its current, the appetites of its wild things.
We had Lily Bay State Park nearly to ourselves that night. We passed the whiskey by the roar of our campfire and talked of nothing and everything and reveled in the cacophony of the night sounds, none of which were electronic or demanding. We burrowed deep into our sleeping bags to combat the frost on the air and woke to the hollow tinkle of ice cold rain on the tent fly.
It's a precious gift, these moments stolen from our routines and obligations. Where we can stand in a river and sink into the meditation of casting line and fly into ever changing waters. Forward and aft we move, aware of the light, of the wind, each shift felt first in our bodies and then registered in our minds. Far from the glare of our computer screens, we begin to see the subtleties again and feel what moves beneath.