We've fished this river for three years, several times a year, but not this section. Instead of heading up, as per usual, we took a gravel road down, until we reached the river. It was much smaller than up yonder, more enclosed, like the tunnels we are used to fishing in back East. Looking down into the small stretch of water there were no flashes of light indicating little trout, but we were already here. Plus, why not try and fish an entire stretch of river?

The sun was warmer in the valley, the rocks brighter; I felt as if I was standing somewhere completely new and foreign. Every so often I would look up and catch a glimpse of that familiar mountain, our typical starting point. I suddenly felt so small, so far away from what I knew.

This foreign place was such a wonderful mix of desert and alpine, full of the smallest brooks and cutthroats (and that's a lot coming from me). I kept getting lost in the abundance of wildflowers, birds, pikas, and marmots, returning to fishing only when compelled to.

I get bored easily. Maybe that's why I feel that the East coast doesn't suit me. I want to experience things that are new and different, completely disparate to yesterday's adventure. There's a type of melancholy that I fall into when I'm home. The similarities between rivers and mountains even amongst the different states are agonizing. I aim to find new discoveries, even in familiar places. I'm sure this says something about my state of mind, perhaps someone with a background in psychology could tell me, but I'm not sure I care.

I left Jacob alone in the river, catching numerous trout out of a single run, to sit and listen to the pikas. They called back and forth along a rock wall, popping up and diving right back down, maybe they were playing a game of 'whack-a-mole' with God. I tore myself away from the scene just as the sky grew dark, the first clap of lighting going off in the distance.

This morning I spent some time amongst the laurels, grateful for an able body and time spent outside. As I sat back on the wet moss I closed my eyes and listened for the pikas.