Winding hackle on a hook is a magic trick. Sleek rooster feathers become bristling guard hairs or buzzing wings while partridge or soft hen transforms into sweeping, pulsing, spidery legs. It's an elegant sleight of hand, fur and feather wound about a steel shank becomes a faux insect, an impressionistic rendering of fish food in miniature.
No one ever added a thumbs up emoji to a picture of you compiling monthly reports or swilling your fourth cup of terrible office coffee. These things are simply what bridges the gaps between our opportunities to do the things that we actually want to be doing.
From my right I heard Jeff swearing softly. I waved at him and offered the universal, “What’s wrong?” sign with raised hands and hunched shoulders. He shook his head and pointed out towards the middle of the lake. The circle of a rise spread and faded. A second rise, ten feet further out into the lake, spread fresh ripples and I could just see the strike on the surface.
Jeff and I settled into searching for greenbacks. We stood on top of the cutbank near the top of the trail, the only place where our backcasts were clear, or a few feet off-shore to quarter our casts along the banks, tracing a drop off where we hoped cruising greenbacks congregated.