On the Coming of Storms

Reminiscing on Fall Steelhead

Somewhere in August a subtle change happens. One morning dawns cooler than the last. Maybe it lasts a day, maybe three, then the notion is lost in the incessant summer. Nothing of real importance happens now, except maybe noting a yellowing cottonwood leaf hanging from a branch. Finally, well into August, I realize there is no turning back now and the best time of year is at hand.

Over the hill and away from the coast, the relentless heat holds fast – lasting well into September and often October. I remember sunsets along the coast when far off webs of cirrus clouds would hold low on the horizon hinting at some far off storm and the reminder that winter is not far off. But these can be days of agony – days I spend with a sense that all of summer’s delights are now out of reach, even though I well know that many more weeks lie ahead. All the while, the fog-shrouded, chilly mornings I remember of seasons well underway seem impossible now. As the days go by, as summer hangs on, I wonder if they will ever come this year. Sometime, not long after, in a fit of desperation, the decision is made to make the annual pilgrimage over the hill, to return to the river. I do not have high hopes of hooking a steelhead, after all, summer is still holding fast. This is a journey to prove that something really is happening. Continue reading “On the Coming of Storms”