Sulphur parting

Lyme had me down hard. Tried to go fishing once and ended up curled up in a ball in the front of Ben's truck sleeping. Sleeping hard. Fever. So it was that this year's spring fishing almost matched the turkey hunting. Not quite, but damn, between the blown out rivers every other day (or everyday on Penn's), getting sick, packing, and moving, there weren't much of it. Not enough anyway.

Ben left the Monday before I was to move - I respect his ability to know what he wants to deal with, what he doesn't, and to do something about it - so Paul and I headed to the little J on Tuesday evening. It was a scorcher with temps in the mid-90s so we figured the hatch wouldn't happen until o'dark thirty. Turns out it didn't really happen at all. I did catch about 7 or 8 though, on a smattering of flies. First on H&C, then swinging some sulphur emergers through the back of an under-bridge run, then on rusty spinners as dark fell. Foggy night at times, glasses clouding up, sweat beading and running. Odd to look around trying to absorb surroundings in the memory banks. The thickness of the leavs, the smell of the water, the feel of the humidity, the tug of hungry browns with sulphur pierced lips. I'm terrible at remembering those things. I think we cooked some steaks, potato skins, and asparagus at home, late, after the drive back up from Spruce Creek. Not an epic end to 8 years in PA, but appropriately subtle and relaxed.