Spring Creeking

I live on a famous river in the West. It slithers across the entire state of Idaho, past the end of my driveway, twists and turns, drops into the abyss of Hell’s Canyon and eventually flows into the Columbia River before it reaches the ocean. Where I live, there are also thousands of springs. Water burps, drips, seeps, cascades, erupts out of the desert floor and volcanic stone. I’ve always found springs to be magical and mysterious and to find one large enough to fish is the ultimate gift. The water runs cool and clear all year, every year. It is never stagnant. Some springs are so fresh they are void of aquatic life — they’re too pure, too sterile an environment to support aqueous life. To find a freshly birthed spring that holds trout is a treasure. It’s the time of year where a wet wade on a local spring is my favorite way to end the day. It’s refreshing for the body and mind and as the sun leaves the sky the water comes alive with the twilight sounds of bugs and birds. I shut my eyes and listen. I stand knee deep in a wild symphony and I conduct that fully dimensional sound with my rod. Cast. Cast. Cast. And now the nighthawks crooning and the rising scent of wild rose on the breeze and the flip of a small rainbow trout on the edge of a seam. Riffles are percussion. Willows are woodwinds. Geese are the horn section. Mosquitos are piccolos. The spring is the melody and everything sings along.