There’s a time when all waters, literal and metaphorical, recede. My personal river report? 16cfs and sinking, the bare stone of its streambed quickly drying as the water fades to potholes and muddy trickles.
The rivers of the Front Range, however, are running high and fast, with banks overtopped by thick, sediment-laden runoff. Even the high-altitude beaver ponds are flooded. The valleys are transformed into enormous willow-choked flows where the notion of river channel and dry land blur and brookies feed in the grass of submerged meadows.
But it’s a rare, beautiful thing to find yourself in the mountains at all and the sum total of seasons, along with fitful weather and roiling waters, are simply the trials and tribulations we must face. Rest easy in the face of runoff. Clear waters will flow again, trout will rise, scattering the reflection of the mountains overhead as they chase dries, and life’s accumulative burdens will swirl behind us like mica suspended in the stream
In the meantime I’ll wait and daydream. Of small streams and brookies, of summer’s heat and hoppers. Of clear back casts and sipping trout.