Last week Frit had a day off work and we used her free morning to drive up into the Uintas for an early morning fishing trip. We woke before the sun, packed a cooler, loaded our gear, and were on our way as light made its way up over the horizon.
After an hour winding through the mountains, we hiked down a hill, past fields of blue bells, and over a tiny stream to a trail that wound around a sleeping lake. It was calm and quiet. In other words, it was perfection.
A few other fishermen were already perched at their stoops and kindly told us that the fishing was good. Not that that mattered to us. We never catch anything anyway, even if everyone else does. But that’s not why we go. We go for the calm. And the quiet.
The colors were deep and saturated, I remember. Plump with hue, the lake and sky volleyed their finest features back and forth, spilling over onto everything in their blue-green reach. And once the sun was high, her bright white yellow mingled gold and sparkling, chasing the shadows of night back into hiding.
I captured a sunburst in the sky.
And starbusts on the lake.
(Doesn’t it look as though little lake urchins strung twinkle lights along the lapping ripples?)
That was about all I caught that day. My big bite of the day was, well … not so big.
But the fish enjoyed a mighty fine breakfast, courtesy of us. And we were happy to oblige.
After all, they did provide us reason for escape, a perfect morning of casting and reeling, the kind of graceful monotony that eases a weary soul.
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