The changing of seasons is always difficult for me. Mostly because I'm impatient and I want it to happen right away. I expect flowers to bloom the first day of spring and 40 degree nights the beginning of autumn. Apparently, mother nature still hasn't received my memo.

Here in Western North Carolina, we've had a particularly long, wet, warm year. Jacob and I recently joked that we saw a groundhog and he told us there would be six more weeks of summer.

This week we hit the water, properly clothed in Chacos and warm weather gear. Yearning for the change of seasons we headed to a larger piece of water, one usually reserved for days where the high is not 82.

You see, I'm just not in the fish killing business, and so the big guys are left alone until I know it's safe to fish for them. Warm days are reserved for high mountain streams and small brookies. But, my impatience got the best of me this week. We swapped out our dry flys for wet, three weights for fives, and put away our 'rock-scrambling' shoes.

Each fish told me that fall was coming, just be patient; their colors vibrant and overwhelming. That's the thing about fishing, right? Patience. Every aspect of the sport requires it. I'll admit, it's not my strong suit. I tried to listen to these trout, telling me the change would happen soon, but I was too caught up in my own anxiety to listen.

For three days it rained. All. Damn. Day.

This morning I woke up to 47 degrees and yellow leaves scattered about my back porch. Turns out, those fish were right, fall was just around the corner. We had said our farewells to summer and didn't even know it.