The air is damp and cold and there's a thick fog settled over everything. I wondered to myself why I even bothered with blow drying my hair this morning, the mist has dampened it already. Despite a silent protest I've pulled on my waders. Wild water is not the place for waders, they're bulky and get in the way. But, spring has just arrived and the water is still cold. It's been a long, cold winter spent away from these waters and I've been waiting to get back to them. Little mountain streams, high up, filled with ambitious brook trout have been calling to me for months.
I always linger a bit behind on the hike to the river. I let the guys dash ahead. I know this trail and this stream, I don't need anyone to guide me. There's a mist coming off the wet, moss covered rocks, or maybe that's just the fog, I can't be sure. Everything is starting to turn green again, the death of winter is starting to fade away, strangled out by new life.
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