TYRA SUTAKDECEMBER 5, 2016
“You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen.”
– Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast.
The icy water drifting down the mighty Big Wood River outside of Ketchum, Idaho sends a chill through my bones, but the adrenaline coursing through my veins, as I slowly pull the cold fishing line through my fingers, sends sparks of warmth through my body, and into my soul. It’s the end of November. The final days of fall. Winter is tip-toeing over the nearby mountain ranges, but still my feet shuffle along the river bottom. I cast, and wait. A quiet wind reminds us all of the imminent changing of the seasons, gently sweeping the last of fall’s discarded leaves along the forest floor. I can smell the oncoming snow, but still, I cast, and wait. The cold air begins to blister my cheeks.
Down the river someone yells out, “nice cast, sister!”
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