I rigged for the river for a change and wandered over there as afternoon was slipping toward evening. I parked by the highway and walked upriver a ways so I could work my way down to my favorite run under the bridge.
They worked on that bridge for a month and a half in June and July, closing the highway and routing the detour right by our formerly quiet homeplace. The bridge is fine now; I wanted to see if the run still was.
It was sunny when I slid down a steep bank and plopped into the water. I heard loud voices and looked up to see a small gaggle of rafters heading my way. I had forgotten all about the possibility of weekend floaters. By the time the last of them had dawdled by (one kid said to me, "Nice line!") clouds were blowing in and spitting rain.
It was good to stretch my wading muscles, and get used to walking on cobbles again. I fished my way downriver, throwing a big bushy fly. I got a little bump once. I didn't for a minute think it was a salmon or a steelhead. But the thing about rivers like this one is that next time it could be.
The setting sun peeked under the cloud bank and lit up the ridge as I approached the run under the bridge. All looked well; just a new snag to fish around.
I worked the run top to bottom. I found no fish, but I felt refreshed.
Change is good.