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701 Posts
Discussion Starter · #1 ·
Ken J. McLeod ©

I wish to be on the North Fork
Where I can hear the Deer Creek riffle flow,
Along cabin row to the Lower (Elbow) Hole
Where the evening primrose grows.

High among the cotonwoods I hear the robins sing,
I see the hawks overhaed with large and powerful wing.
I hope the sunset tonight is one of orange and pink.
The deer have now come down to the water for a cool drink.

With fly rod in hand, waders, vest and stripping basket on,
I cast far out and the fly swims like a graceful swan.
A summer-run rolls atop the water and I wait,
The fry they hide in gravel not wanting to be bait.

I feel a good strike and my Hardy reel sings out forthright,
There are leaps into the air, the fish is chrome bright.
He's now into the backing and my heart skips a beat,
Everyone along the river is sleeping still in night retreat.

Today like many other days I need to be here,
To cast a fly called "Sunrise" to sunset ...
God how I love it dear.

from www.alpinequest.com

Formerly Tight Loops
1,341 Posts
Now here is a poem that can stir my soul.

Thanks, and thanks for the link. It's great to see a website by the son of 2 of the pioneers of fly fishing for steelhead. And its good to see that he still carries on in the family tradition.

Genetic pollution damages wild
stocks, bonk those Hatchery Zombies!

125 Posts
How about this, written 400 years ago?



The Bait

Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove,
Of golden sand, and crystal brooks,
With silken lines and silver hooks.

There will the river whispering run,
Warmed by thy eyes more than the sun.
And there the enamoured fish will stay.
Begging themselves they may betray.

When wilt thou swim in that live bath,
Each fish, which every channel hath,
Will amorously to thee swim,
Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.

If thou, to be so seen, beest loath,
By sun or moon, thou dark'nest both;
And if myself have leave to see,
I need not their light, having thee.

Let others freeze with angling reeds,
And cut their legs with shells and weeds,
Or treacherously poor fish beset
With strangling snare, or windowy net.

Let course bold hand from slimy nest
The bedded fish in banks out-wrest,
Or curious traitors, sleave-silk flies,
Bewitch poor fishes' wandering eyes.

For thee, thou need'st no such deceit,
For thou thyself are thine own bait;
That fish that is not catched thereby,
Alas, is wiser far than I.

John Donne
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