One of the paradoxes of fly-fishing in mountain streams is the passage of time.
It breaks down like this.
When I want to be there, it seems to take forever to get ready and get there. When I’m fishing, concentration is measured in casts, not minutes — in takes, misses, confusion, or resignation.
Nothing else.
Time seems to pass slowly as I move from spot to spot, the concentration of fishing unbroken — until I look up and notice the day has gone by.
I don’t wear a watch, relying instead on the movement of sun and shadow on the water to measure the time left to fish.
I like it that way.
There is no time on a stream. Only movement of the water.
Crazy the time warp that happens on the water. Fast yet slow all at the same time.