First Time

There is always a first time for everything, or so it’s been said. Some things have more than one first time. This time of year, every year, there is a first time that I look forward to. I’m not alone in this anticipation. All over, there are people who have waited or are waiting for this same “first”. After a long winter the first flowers or the first Robins are awaited as the harbingers of new life. To some the first tourists of a season are always anxiously, awaited.
The itch to experience my annual “first” is soothed the first day I’m able to take a little bit of fur and feather, wrapped and tied onto a hook, and lightly dab it in the surface film in front of a hungry but wary trout.
This year's first day of fishing would not have been remarkable if I would have had to stand elbow to elbow on a riverbank with others of my ilk. Nor would it have meant as much if I had been sitting in a boat, getting a farmer tan and sipping rocky mountain suds.
My first day of fishing only lasted about ninety minutes. The sun was almost down behind the ridge at my back, making the water dark but not hiding the swirls created by the rising trout. A hawk on that same Spruce studded ridge pierced the early evening calm with his calls. The bogs were alive with the croaking of a million frogs.
A number of Brown trout were deceived by my tiny flies. Caught and released to swim and grow until the next stalker tests them.
It was almost dark when I turned away from this year's “first”. As a final good bye, I was assaulted by a barrage of unseen coyotes starting their evening songs. If I had not caught a single fish, I would still have rated this “first” with five stars. On to my second…