The fly rod in my hand shimmered blackly; graphite iridescence, green guide wraps, Portuguese cork grip. A gold reel seemed almost gaudy against such understated charm.
Around me, the creek was low, perhaps a quarter its flow last time I was here. But the water was cool and moved along at a good clip. My fly of choice, a small yellow popper with white legs, still rested in the chrome hook keeper near the rod's grip. I stood there on the edge of the creek and soaked in the sound of the water falling over a little ledge, the scents of the trees, the sun on the back of my neck, just cresting the tree tops.