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Butterfly-Fishing

I am not a misanthrope but I do shun thefirst. Then another took off from a
company of people when it comes to flydistant branch, which was followed by
fishing. When I have a stream to myself,another from a white stone, and another,
I become more at ease, more aware of myand another and another.
surroundings, and open to nature'sThey appeared out of nowhere and soon
bounty. I am not so busy chatting aboutthe air filled with hundreds of
hatches, competing for water, orflickering, fluttering butterflies, a
enviously eyeing the skillful ease of asunlit, gleaming cloud of moving,
fellow angler's cast. One downside isexpanding purple space. They filled the
that there is generally no one presentsky and danced as though engaged in some
to confirm or deny the size and numbersecret papilonian ritual. I stood
of trout I catch and release on anyfrozen, heart pounding, as my breathing
given day. Even worse, when somethingquickened. The multitude of butterflies,
truly incredible happens no one is therenow a shimmering, surreal entity,
to verify it. However, this is a smallencircled me, enveloped me in a mystical
sacrifice for the pleasure suchwhirlwind; then lanquidly floated high
experiences in solitude brings.above, stopped and hovered as though
When I am on a stream solo,poised on some mysterious looming
extraordinary things happen. Oneprecipice, then as one fluid mass,
experience I will never forget occurredtumbled off like air-born rapids down
while I was fishing a stream near mythe river valley and into the steep
home in the West Kootenays of Southerncanyon.
British Columbia. This particular day inI remained motionless for a long time
July was like most of our summer days:after. I kept peering down into the
scorching. There was no breeze, nocanyon in hopes that the butterflies
clouds, no shade, only the mercilesswould emerge for an encore. My breathing
weight of the sun. Thankfully, I wasslowly returned to normal but a strange,
waist deep in the cool, forgiving river,nervous tremor still lay deep in my
casting my fly toward a deep depressionstomach. A slight breeze began to stir,
sunk into the opposite bank that createdand the sun dipped low over the western
a bit of a back eddy. The fly settled ahills, taking much of the oppressive
few feet upstream of the eddy but theheat with it. Suddenly off the water, a
current soon floated it into the seam.large mayfly emerged. I watched as
It happened so fast - the splash, theanother alighted on the stream, drifting
set, the trout hooked, played, andalong on its current only to be
gently released - a nice sixteen inchswallowed up in a fatal splash. I
rainbow.couldn't pass up a good Ephemerella
As I continued working the water,grandis hatch. I tied on a red quill dun
casually casting into the riffles andand cast into the ebbing light, the
holes, my eye caught a flicker ofsound of butterfly wings still echoing
something in the air. Turning quickly toin my head.
my right, I focused my gaze on theIt was a sublime moment and though the
stunning, acrobatic convulsions of aexperience may seem incidental to the
butterfly. The vibrant purple wings withfishing, I could not have witnessed it
orange sun-burst tips and white borders,had I not gone fly fishing. Wherever and
suggested a Lorquins Admiral. It dippedwhenever I go, whether alone or with
and fluttered through the air until itothers, it is for the simple pleasure of
settled on a withered log at the edge ofbeing out on the water amidst the
the stream. I saw another, an exactwonders of the natural world, seeking
replica, take wing and stumble drunkenlyfish, and, if truly fortunate, finding
over the water. It was followed by thebutterflies.



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