Robinson Creek

The strangeness in familiar fonts garner stretched matter. The Sawtooth Mountain Range of Eastern California has time. The space has a level conscious. Both are physical and occupy rent in my veins. Robinson Creek after the camp season is a place of elevated distinction. The wind roams angry. The water is cool to the touch. Cold in the heart. Few men or women journey this stream late in Fall. I carry a Japanese fly rod, a triggered yodel and cigarette on constant burn. Catching and releasing trout means little during these quiet days. Often I just stare at the ponderosa swaying against an angels shoulder. Angling is unessential. As can often relay the Gods, fly fishing is usually at its finest when you are best in spirit. Counter weighting the poetic symmetry that strikes success on a river. I never feel alone but always am. Intrigued at the spin of every pool. This season they rarely change shape. On cadence the words of giants revel in water and light. Robinson Creek honors your Autumn footsteps. As if sheltered from a better age...RW
www.sierrastrange.com
STAY STRANGE!