Wednesday 15th July, 2009
The walk down from the truck to the river takes a bit longer than it used to.
With the increased angling pressure the path is worn deeper than I remember, but the sky as still as blue as ever, and the fish are still there.
There isn't much to say when you're fishing The River with a guy who's been doing it since before you were born. Sometimes it's nice to just stand there and watch it all happen. The flies, the drifts, even the wind seems familiar and easy.
We don't get to do this as much as we used to, but when we do, it always seems to go right. I know The River doesn't fish well every day, but we seem to get lucky more times than not.
Nothing is rushed, and we save the best looking pockets and seams for each other. We hook a bunch of fish and lose all the biggest ones, acting disappointed even though neither of us really are.
It seems like we've been at it for a long time, but I look at my watch and it's only been two hours. A whole summer of fishing The River together, now takes only 120 minutes.
Back at the truck we crack open a couple of luke warm cans of beer.
"That was some pretty good fishing", I say.
"Sure was, Matt. I really enjoyed that."
And all I can think is, "Me too, Dad. Me too."
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