Damn, that's a purty picture. I envision the hungry trout in that pond voraciously gorging on as many insects in the wrong place at the wrong time, that is from the insects' point of view, as they possibly can - instinctively knowing that winter is coming soon to the top of the Rockies. Fall, to me, is the best time of year to trek off into the upper reaches of the mountains and be mesmorized by spell that Mother Nature has cast upon the High Country. The weather, barring any sudden storms barreling over the Continental Divide, is perfect for taking a nice long hike to the tree line (usually about 10,000 feet), locating a creek that began as a small, steady drip from the permafrost above, hugging that creek bank as it meanders down the mountainside, fishin' my ass off for several hours and several thousand vertical feet. I tend to go to the remote fishin' spots where the likelihood of seeing another human is, well, remote. Then God and I have a visit about stuff and the sounds of the alpine wilderness speak to my soul, as if He has commanded them to do so especially for me, a goofy fisherman. As Crocodile Dundee said, "Yep. Me and God, we be mates". When I am fishin', I am the hunter, tempting the fish to accept the bounty of my offering, while in my thoughts the words "teach a man to fish..." reverberate, like an echo in the canyon that lays before me. Then it hits me. I ain't so smart after all, for I am the one who has accepted the bounty of an offering. The offering that is the place where I am. Hooked like a hungry trout who at the moment of capture realizes that he's been caught. I, too, have been "caught". Lured by something so tempting that refusal is not an option. I have been "caught" by the Greatest Fisherman of All. God. The Fisher of Man. Yep. Me and God, we be mates -and Fishin' Buddies.
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