The time is ticking away. Season's end is near. You take some seasonal flies and head up to the lake for the final campaign of the year. You will try to get there on three of the remaining four days.
The day is bright and not too cold, but a north wind is blowing hard.
You buck it for awhile, then get an idea. You turn and ride the wind.
You're working the shoreline on the way, and a little brown blows in like a leaf.
And then a little rainbow.
You're heading for the channel at the far south end of the lake. You drift down its length...
And there you find what you were hoping to find: a long sheltered shoreline in the south pond.
So you kick around and fish like it's still summer. You can almost forget the insistent warning of the north wind still roaring in the tree tops.
You probe the shoreline and find fish. You get several hits that you miss, and you hook two fish that come off.
Then another brown hits and sticks.
Soon the sun dips behind the mountain, and the temperature begins a downward slide. Twenties are predicted overnight.
By then you're back at the channel, so you kick out into the wind again and head up the shoreline toward the truck. You lean back into the wind, and the wind pushes back hard. Waves splash over the float tube and down your neck.
You fish all the way back, but nothing more comes. You head for shore.
By the time you're loaded and ready to go the wind has begun to sit down a little. You hope it won't be back tomorrow.