End of June

It's painstakingly slow—like watching paint dry, or grass grow, or waiting for a Sunday sermon to end when you're seven years old and the wooden pew is hard, and all your friends are already back home playing, because their parents don't go to church; or if they do, their preacher isn't as long-winded. But it's like that, it really is, watching the snow slowly melt off the mountains of Colorado in the distance, looking for a new rock today that wasn't visible yesterday, a sign, any sign, that run-off is coming to it's end, because you want to, no— have to, fish. It should have been a productive time, but it wasn't. I should have painted the house, worked on the car, written a book, but I didn't do any of those things. I didn't do any of those things because I was in a funk—a no fishing-stare at the mountains-watch the snow melt-are we there yet?, funk. But it's coming to an end soon, they tell me. It'll all be over, and I'll be able to wade the river, fish to my heart's content, eat my lunches again on goose-poop covered islands and swat at mosquitoes and life will be good once again, and all my friends and co-workers will be happy too, because I can fish and I am no longer the grumpy old guy they have to avoid and endure. With my life restored, who knows, perhaps I will find my muse again, the water, the fish. Perhaps, I'll be inspired to write again; perhaps I will dance, I know I will dance at least a little jig of happiness, because now I can fish. According to the last word I received from the Bureau of Reclamation, they plan to start reducing the flow here on the 29th of June and over the following 12 days; that means by July 4th the flow should be somewhere around 2,200 to 2,000 cfs and I can begin accessing some water on foot again. Let's hope they keep their word. Angels are smiling in heaven.