I grope toward the bed in the half dark as my eyes adjust to the diffuse light of the rising Harvest Moon glancing through the five bedroom windows. I strip off my clothes and pause for a moment to shiver in the bracing breeze streaming through the windows knowing that warmth is a step away. I breathe deeply through my nose, feeling the coolness. A hint of horses from the upper pasture tints the air.

I reach toward the dark spot in the center of my half of the bed to shove the cat over but he only rolls onto his back and stretches out for a belly rub. I lift the edge of the thin blanket and help him continue his roll off my sleeping spot.

I slide into bed and pull the light summer blanket up. The warmth in the middle of my back from where the cat was and the cold sheets on my feet make me shiver again. I think of the thick comforter, the winter one on the shelf of the closet—it’s about time to put it on the bed. The weight pressing down is the thought—not the warmth, the weight.

It’s mid-September. The air-conditioner is off. The windows stay open 24 hours a day. The bigtooth maples and aspen on the mountains paint a backdrop of orange and yellows for the red barn across the road.

As I contemplate the weight of the comforter, my feet warm. I close my eyes and see the small stand of fir trees tight to the bank of the small creek in The Basin— my favorite fall haunt. I picture the sun low, slanting across the fir which cast their penumbra across the fifteen foot wide creek for 60 or more feet upriver.

I inhale deeply and can smell—smell, mind you, lying in my bed, I actually smell—the fir and the dirt. The sage. And the water. The cold, crisp water. Not the water itself—cupping the water and bringing it to my nose I smell nothing. But leaning back, inhaling deeply it smells like water. Or, more precisely, like the river. Or is it the sound of the river? If I were deaf and blind, would it still smell like the river? I believe it would.

Yellow leaves from the aspen upriver pinwheel and tumble through my mind into the small eddies and pools. They glow from the golden creek bottom and are plastered to the sides of rocks.

I think of stepping into the water—a tentative foot in an old pair of leather boots. The shock is welcome as I wet wade like so many times before. A self-flagellation to focus the mind on the water, bringing the senses to immediate and full awareness.

In my bed, in my mind, I see this. I smell it. I feel it.

I take the size 16 Adams from the hook keeper and pull a couple of feet of float line from the end of the 7’6” 3 wt. rod. Nine feet of line hangs loose. I squat down and lower myself a bit too far—the water laps my pockets causing me to quickly stand. I try again more slowly.

I squat-waddle a few steps forward and swing the fly into a pool half the size of a bathtub. A couple of bright red osier dogwood leaves clump to the fly. I lift the fly, shake the leaves off, then swing it back into the pool.

I picture a lightly spotted nose and slash of white lift from the water, followed by an orange gash while the fly disappears. I bring the eight inch cutthroat to hand.

I see myself moving upstream to the beaver pond that’s surrounded by aspen gnawed into spires four feet above the ground—a winter dam. I know I’ll lift a handful of cutts from here, like always. And just above, around the bend, is where, 17 years ago, a 14 inch cutthroat took my Hopper as it dangled from a twig, six inches above the surface.

The moose is there, in my mind’s eye, with her calf as I slowly back away. She steps toward me, then turns and dips her muzzle to tug at some greens along the bank. I creep between the bushes on the far bank.

A small hatch of the largest green drakes I have seen in the surrounding mountains comes off at the next beaver pond—the double pond where I cast to cruising trout. Another stand of fir line the bank where I stand in a glint of sun to drip dry.

I picture myself packing up and walking the road back to where I parked. I hear a truck pull alongside. A couple of gents in their slick waders and catalog fishing vests stop and ask how the fishing was. I shrug noncommittally. They complain there are no fish in the creek. I quickly agree and cheerfully wave as they head down the road.

The moon now shines directly through the south windows onto my bed. I turn over and continue dream fishing through the sleepless autumn night.

For even more pictures from this area, try The Basin – A Picture Report.

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