August is unfolding much too quickly, and the summer continues busy. But the lake is there for you. It provides, if not an escape, then a respite from the demands of the day. So you fly in like a duck, wings whistling in sharp descent, and the moment you hit the water you fold those wings and settle down, and by the time the ripples have dissipated you're a part of the evening's calm.
The lake is still a damsel carnival, the surface awhirl with blue.
This time you throw a muddler for awhile, then go for your damsel imitation and it's not on the fly patch. That was your last one. You've been meaning to tie up a few more.
You tie on a #12 green-bodied, black-winged stimulator, just in case. You lay it out there over a few rises. Nothing. So you decide to head back and see if the damsel fly came off in or near the truck. You start the kick back drifting the fly behind you. A fish sucks it in and breaks it off, just like that. That's encouraging.
You search in and around the truck. No fly. It's gone. You go back out and tie on another #12 stimulator, this one black-winged and black-bodied. That couldn't work, could it? You curl around a point and find some fish working along the shoreline weed beds. You wait for a rise, drop it in close, and let it sit.
It works, falling in that category of grace called "close enough." The first fish is the best fish of the trip.
Other fish come to it.
The fish quit coming up after awhile. You tie on a muddler and work it here and there in the cool calm. You hear crackling and rustling in the willows and think it's one of the many beavers constantly working. But it's a doe and her fawn. You feel honored by their lack of fear.
Then you do see a beaver, signalling dusk.
You get the muddler in the right place once before dark.
The lake has graced you once more. And it will be there for you again.