We drove along the Provo River looking for a good spot to stop and fish. From the passenger seat I caught glimpses of the water over the guard rail between the curves in the highway.
The river has changed in the winter, but somehow it's familiar. Amplified somehow in every experience. We walk out to the river, but it's quieter. The sound of snow crunching beneath our boots reminds us of that silence. We read water, but the seams and pockets are more nuanced and subtle.
There are times on the river when you are sure. From where I stood in the cold flowing water of the Provo River, I could see the water bend downstream and speed up before the bridge. Saw the rocks and white breaks beside gentle pools and midcurrents that hugged the bank walled with overgrowth. I knew that seam held fish. I was sure of it.
It had been too long since I made it to the river. I was at a new job with the airlines and had been living in Kansas City for about a year. It was high time for a fly fishing trip to re-cage. I set my mind on some good old fashioned, summer dry fly fishing in the Rocky Mountains.